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 Come, thrust your hands in the warm earth 
And feel her strength through all your veins; 
Breathe her full odors, taste her mouth, 
Which laughs away imagined pains; 
Touch her life's womb, yet know 
This substance makes your grave also.
Shrink not; your flesh is no more sweet Than flowers which daily blow and die; Nor are your mein and dress so neat, Nor half so pure your lucid eye; And, yet, by flowers and earth I swear You're neat and pure and sweet and fair.

by Richard Aldington
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