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fall poem

my son is dead and i am going blind
i think it just splendid
see, from this counterfeit of him
beneath the warrior's helm
so lost
pushing out, struggling vainly
if the red slayer think he slays
splendid and terrible your love
see, they return
they in the darkness gather and ask
there are three ways in which men take
i am the wind that wavers
brief on a flying night
who is the runner in the skies

 



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