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Now,
Like the pines intoning
Though some solitary gloom,
My errant thoughts go pattering
About love's ancient tomb,
And though no breath of incense rare
Lies round the shattered cup,
A banquet weird, the fragments
Where the ghost of love
Like the pines intoning
Though some solitary gloom,
My errant thoughts go pattering
About love's ancient tomb,
And though no breath of incense rare
Lies round the shattered cup,
A banquet weird, the fragments
Where the ghost of love
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