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funeral poem

the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
there is a city, builded by no hand
they ask me where i've been
see, they return
burly, dozing humble-bee
the little white prayers
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
in his guarded tent
in your flight
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
some one complained to the master
she must go back, she said

 



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