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epic poetry

a little peach in the orchard grew
when i was broke in london
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
shades of night were falling fast
i see all human wits
a look is but a ray
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
all those treasures that lie
we were not many
what do i owe to you
storm
i have cast the world
so lost
it tells of good old times

 



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