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Poem	There where the rusty iron lies, The rooks are cawing all the day. Perhaps no man, until he dies, Will understand them, what they say. The evening makes the sky like clay. The slow wind waits for night to rise. The world is half content. But they Still trouble all the trees with cries, That know, and cannot put away, The yearning to the soul that flies From day to night, from night to day.
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