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narrative poetry

here falls no light
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i have cast the world
these be
there are three ways in which men take
the old songs
but alas, just dreams
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i walk down the garden paths
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
the old west, the old time
glooms of the live-oaks
sun stepped down from his golden throne

 



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