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Tuesday, January 25, 2005
from Israfel
Edgar Allan Poe
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit -
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute -
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine, but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely - flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
posted by gbarto at 10:35 PM
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