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son poem

she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
if i should die, think only this of me
in his guarded tent
i am in love with high far-seeing places
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
but alas, just dreams
i walk down the garden paths
in the cloud-gray mornings
there were three in the meadow by the brook
i am singing to you
the air is like a butterfly
what spiteful chance steals unawares

 



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