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narrative poetry

it was the autumn of the year
if i should die, think only this of me
among the mountains i wandered
stir
when i go back to earth
i am in love with high far-seeing places
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
doubtless i remember still
out of the deep and the dark
he came and took me by the hand
let a joy keep you
all down the years

 



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