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retirement poem

under the harvest moon
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
eighty years have passed, and more
in the cloud-gray mornings
therefore i may not
a bird sang
there are three ways in which men take
the old west, the old time
gone are the three, those sisters rare
with lips blood red and heart of stone
when you come tonight
i am a woman
the endless, foolish merriment of stars

 



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