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epic poetry

she heard the children playing in the sun
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
is there anybody there
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
she must go back, she said
soft as the bed in the earth
listen to the sounding sea
who loves the rain
from floor to ceiling
brief on a flying night
sweet splendor

 



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