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funeral poem

night is dark, and the winter winds
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
i've won the race
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
world that changes under my hand
among the mountains i wandered
a mist was driving down
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
stern cold man
he'd even have his joke
the meadow was creeping
the hypocritic days

 



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