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over the river they beckon to me
before the solemn bronze saint
i am the wind that wavers
three years ago today
the ancient songs
though i am little as all little things
sad are they who know not love
i have to say good-night
the meadow was creeping
afraid no more, i say
earth travails
made up of loveliness alone
i had a dream and i awoke with it
i do not pray for peace

 



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