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daughter poem

the agony of having too much power
roses and gold
the old songs
if i were very sure
some one complained to the master
they may talk of love in a cottage
lo! 'tis a gala night
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
a pen of steel
under a spreading chestnut tree
softly weeping
desolate and lone
i went up and down the streets

 



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