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To Memory

 Strange Power, I know not what thou art, 
Murderer or mistress of my heart.
I know I'd rather meet the blow Of my most unrelenting foe Than live---as now I live---to be Slain twenty times a day by thee.
Yet, when I would command thee hence, Thou mockest at the vain pretence, Murmuring in mine ear a song Once loved, alas! forgotten long; And on my brow I feel a kiss That I would rather die than miss.

by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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