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dark poetry

sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
i know not where
little gate was reached at last
beside a stricken field
sadly speaking
birds against the april wind
listen
softly weeping
daughter, thou art come to die
shades of night were falling fast
lo! 'tis a gala night
you are my companion
i have to say good-night
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel

 



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