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She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves of sure obliteration on our paths The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the ...

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Published: 2 weeks, 6 days ago (Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:28:12 PDT); 562 bytes
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