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Bluebeard

by
 This door you might not open, and you did; 
 So enter now, and see for what slight thing 
You are betrayed.
.
.
Here is no treasure hid, No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, But only what you see.
.
.
Look yet again— An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept Unto myself, lest any know me quite; And you did so profane me when you crept Unto the threshold of this room to-night That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours.
I seek another place.

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