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A box of glazed sour fruit compact,
And oh the grime of lodging roomsThis side the tomb!This cubbyhole, out of superstition,I chose once more.The walls seem dappled oaks; the door,A singing door.You strove to leave; my hand was steadyUpon the latch.My forelock touched a wondrous forehead;My lips felt violets.O Sweet! Your dress as on a dayNot long agoTo April, like a snowdrop,…
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Read this poem in other languages
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.