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it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i love my life, but not too well
i walk down the garden paths
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
i stand in the cold gray weather
there is no escape by the river
the hypocritic days
in all things not spoken of
friend, whose smile has come to be
our pleasant moments fly
days endeared to every muse

 



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