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tell me not
soft as the bed in the earth
i stood
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
a mist was driving down
little gate was reached at last
very well, you liberals
the arches of the red bridge
i have had one fear in my life
the poets tell
simplicity
this ancient silver bowl of mine
under a spreading chestnut tree
i do not pray for peace

 



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