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Sorrow, by D.H. Lawrence

WHY does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?
Ah, you will understand;        5
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,
I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs        10
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.

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