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family poetry

the sun is up
gone are the three, those sisters rare
a little peach in the orchard grew
night was black and drear
see, from this counterfeit of him
which i wish to remark
it was a tall young oysterman
the ancient songs
were it not for that singular smell
love me at last, or if you will not
all those treasures that lie
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
it was many and many a year ago

 



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