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romantic poetry

night is dark, and the winter winds
tell me less or tell me more
just as my fingers on these keys
little park that i pass through
love has been sung a thousand ways
do you remember
there is a country full of wine
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
now while my lips are living
do you hear the rain?
were it not for that singular smell
birds against the april wind
a storm is riding on the tide
two rows of cabbages

 



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