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thanksgiving poem

i said, i have shut my heart
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
but i cannot read you now
she said
by the rude bridge
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
if i should die, think only this of me
who is the runner in the skies
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
and how could you dream of meeting
my son is dead and i am going blind
this ancient silver bowl of mine
as a white candle
daughter, thou art come to die

 



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