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thanksgiving poem

beside a stricken field
when you come tonight
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
why then, must we see?
pushing out, struggling vainly
tell me not
their beautiful hair
royal feast was done
night is dark, and the winter winds
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
i see all human wits
i know not where
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale

 



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