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thanksgiving poetry

let me move slowly through the street
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
i cannot always feel his greatness
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares
softly weeping
i loathed you
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
some one complained to the master
hang no wreath
there is no escape by the river
here lies a most beautiful lady

 



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