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MY silks and fine array  
My smiles and languish'd air  
By Love are driven away; 
And mournful lean Despair 
Brings me yew to deck my grave: 5 
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was 't given Whose heart is wintry cold? 10 His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb Where all Love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made 15 Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie as cold as clay: True love doth pass away!

by William Blake
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