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488 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Wirrasthrue !
My father and mother,
The priest, and my brother —
Not a one has a good word for you. But I can't part you, darling; their preaching's all » vain;
You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop; And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll drain —
To the last brilliant drop.
Then oblivion will cover
The shame that is over, The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore;
Then, beautiful witch,
I'll be found—in a ditch, With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more. |
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