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A Fleeting Passion

 Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, 
Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; 
As quietly and solemnly 
As Life when it is kissing Death.
Now in the silence of the grave, My hand is squeezing that soft breast; While thou dost in such passion lie, It mocks me with its look of rest.
But when the morning comes at last, And we must part, our passions cold, You'll think of some new feather, scarf To buy with my small piece of gold; And I'll be dreaming of green lanes, Where little things with beating hearts Hold shining eyes between the leaves, Till men with horses pass, and carts.

by William Henry Davies
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