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 Erewhile, before the world was old, 
When violets grew and celandine, 
In Cupid's train we were enrolled: 
Your little hands were clasped in mine, 
Your head all ruddy and sun-gold 
Lay on my breast which was your shrine, 
And all the tale of love was told: 
Ah, God, that sweet things should decline, 
And fires fade out which were not cold, 

by Ernest Dowson
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