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Brooding Grief

A YELLOW leaf from the darkness  
Hops like a frog before me.  
Why should I start and stand still?  
 
I was watching the woman that bore me  
Stretched in the brindled darkness
Of the sick—room, rigid with will  
To die: and the quick leaf tore me  
Back to this rainy swill  
Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.
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