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daughter poem

under the harvest moon
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
be not angry with me
by the rude bridge
these be
babylon-where i go dreaming
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
simplicity
the mountains they are silent folk
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
do not grieve that it is over
if i should die, think only this of me

 



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