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death poetry

my son is dead and i am going blind
the mountains they are silent folk
tripping up, falling down
a bird sang
she might have known it in the earlier spring
i have had one fear in my life
along a river-side
sweet splendor
by the rude bridge
i burn no incense
music i heard with you was more than music
let us express our baser passions
there are three ways in which men take

 



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