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autumn poem

the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
though i am little as all little things
days endeared to every muse
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
in their ragged regimentals
have you seen walking through the village
as i lie roofed in, screened in
here falls no light
i have to say good-night
as a naked man i go
some one complained to the master
i do not pray for peace
let me be sad
sadly speaking

 



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