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Aftermath

 I learnt to write to you in happier days,
And every letter was a piece I chipped
From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped
From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,
Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.
To make a pavement for your feet I stripped My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.
But now my letters are like blossoms pale We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.
I ask no recompense, I shall not fail Although you do not heed; the long, sad years Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail, And whisper words of love which no one hears.

Poem by Amy Lowell
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