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narrative poetry

in and of itself
bring me soft song
see, from this counterfeit of him
i despise my friends more than you
sweet splendor
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
some one complained to the master
when night drifts along the streets of the city
through the broad earth's aching breast
if the red slayer think he slays
you are clear
i have cast the world
i can not tell you now

 



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