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Southern Mansion

by
 Poplars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps.
There is a sound of music echoing Through the open door And in the field there is Another sound tinkling in the cotton: Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.
The years go back with an iron clank, A hand is on the gate, A dry leaf trembles on the wall.
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down And poplars stand there still as death.

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