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sorry poem

is there anybody there
this is the song of youth
i have cast the world
shades of night were falling fast
out of me unworthy and unknown
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
in the cloud-gray mornings
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
i saw the clouds among the hills
the poets tell
my soul is a dark ploughed field
why do
dear wife

 



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