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Is not this enough for moan To see this babe all motherless - A babe beloved - thrust out alone Upon death's wilderness? Out tears fall, fall, fall - I would weep My blood away to make her warm, Who never went on earth one step, Nor heard the breath of the storm. How shall you go, my little child, Alone on that most wintry wild?
Edmund Blunden
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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