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love poetry chat

arched the flood
of sun nor stars
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
sleep, gray brother of death
for these white arms about my neck
why then, must we see?
see, from this counterfeit of him
at dawn, he said
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
are you awake?
splendid and terrible your love
thou unrelenting past
all down the years

 



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