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sad poetry

once this soft turf
wheel me down by the meadow
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
sleep, gray brother of death
here falls no light
this is the song of youth
when you come tonight
though i am little as all little things
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
there by the window in the old house
lo! 'tis a gala night

 



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