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poetry poem

and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
love me at last, or if you will not
night was black and drear
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
let us express our baser passions
she said
our pleasant moments fly
but alas, just dreams
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
as i lie roofed in, screened in

 



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