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romantic poetry

my mother twines me roses wet with dew
beautiful, tragical faces
there is no escape by the river
gaily through the fields we danced
what do i owe to you
so fallen
i love to steal awhile away
sad are they who know not love
sweet splendor
it tells of good old times
there are three ways in which men take
in halls of sleep you wandered by
storm

 



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