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sorry poem

if the red slayer think he slays
when i looked into your eyes
just now
so lost
be not angry with me
a bird sang
there are three ways in which men take
she knows a cheap release
these be
but i cannot read you now
gone are the three, those sisters rare
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
in halls of sleep you wandered by
why so sad my lovely one?

 



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