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Poem by John Keats
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Think not of it, sweet one, so; – Give it not a tear; Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go Any, any where. Do not lool so sad, sweet one, – Sad and fadingly; Shed one drop then, – it is gone – O ’twas born to die! Still so pale? then, dearest, weep; Weep, I’ll count the tears, And each one shall be a bliss For thee in after years. Brighter has it left thine eyes Than a sunny rill; And thy whispering melodies Are tenderer still. Yet – as all things mourn awhile At fleeting blisses, E’en let us too! but be our dirge A dirge of kisses.
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