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lyric poem

one with you
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
lo! 'tis a gala night
within my hand i hold
the sun is up
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
they may talk of love in a cottage
there is a city, builded by no hand
he'd even have his joke
in may
with lips blood red and heart of stone
shades of night were falling fast
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
the mountains they are silent folk

 



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