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Ah, what shall I be at fifty, should nature keep me alive, if I find the world so bitter when I am but twenty-five?
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Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labor be?
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By night we lingered on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry;...
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Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower
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Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, dead perfection; no more.
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