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daughter poem

as i lie roofed in, screened in
softly weeping
music i heard with you was more than music
little gate was reached at last
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
skies they were ashen and sober
sing again the song you sung
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
at midnight
along the banks
no prey am i of poor thoughts
there is an hour of peaceful rest

 



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