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gothic poetry

he'd even have his joke
she burst fierce wine
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
in the sphere
afraid no more, i say
backward, turn backward
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
i have to say good-night
lo! 'tis a gala night
the agony of having too much power
all my love for my sweet
be not false

 



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