a man asked us to imagine, if we could.i wish, on windy days, that i would,with storm wrought breezesflying in from the seas,his dreams were not misunderstood.as those fical, grey winds blow,i shudder, 'though not from the cold, it's the mis'ry within me from the dread mem'rythat he was killed so long agotrying to learn rhyme and meter, don't pay it no mind
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