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daughter poem

within my hand i hold
he'd even have his joke
this is the song of youth
all within and all without me
do the boys and girls still go
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
i am dying
eighty years have passed, and more
you are beautiful and faded
a flying word from here and there
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
gone before us
though i am little as all little things
one by one, like leaves from a tree

 



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