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father poem

i heard the wind all day
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
a mist was driving down
our pleasant moments fly
weak-winged is song
i have to say good-night
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
eighty years have passed, and more
all quiet along the potomac
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
to the passionate lover
made up of loveliness alone

 



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