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About This Poem
The Grand Old Lady
One hundred year’s young.
The
grand old lady
lying still
in the blackness
of time.
Her great hull
standing silent
weeping for
its precious
cargo.
Shivering vaporous forms
of first class and steerage.
Stroll hand in hand
together to the
surging currents
of the Atlantic.
A vast wardrobe
of scattered luggage,
across the sandy floor.
Small ghostly forms
play chasey among
the tattered decks.
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