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AND THE traveller hopes: let me be far from any
Physician. And the ports have names for the sea,
The citiless, thee corroding, the sorrow.
And North means to all Reject.
I
One among friends who stood above your grave
I cast a clod of earth from those heaped there
Down on the great brass-handled coffin lid.
It rattled on the oak like a door knocker
And at that sound I saw your face beneath
Wedged in an oblong shadow under ground.
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