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For Hazel Hall,
American Poet
SOUL-TROUBLED at the febrile ways of breath,
Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm,
"Yes, I'm a stranger here," she said to Death,
"It's kind of you to let me take your arm."
Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm,
"Yes, I'm a stranger here," she said to Death,
"It's kind of you to let me take your arm."
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