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I'd like to write a poemSomething moving, something wiseI'd like my words to linger onLong after my demiseI'd like to write of daffodilsAnd lonely, wand'ring cloudsOf sailing ships and sealing waxOf marriages and shroudsBut all the while I sit hereIt's not my voice that I hearIt's the golden tones of poets pastThat whisper in my earHave all the noblest words been writ?Has it all been said before?Will there ever be a place for meUpon that swollen shore?If I close my eyes and listenFor a voice that's fresh and clearWill there ever be the slightest chanceIt's my voice that I hear?
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