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death poetry

be patient, life, when love is at the gate
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i saw with open eyes
do not grieve that it is over
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
sun stepped down from his golden throne
as evening falls
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
a look is but a ray
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam

 



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