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grandmother poem

the meadow was creeping
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
who is the runner in the skies
rocked in the cradle of the deep
quietly, with reverance, in awe
they may talk of love in a cottage
i love my life, but not too well
have you seen walking through the village
dark-eyed
under dusky laurel leaf
renew the vision of delight

 



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