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Poem	Erewhile, before the world was old, When violets grew and celandine, In Cupid's train we were enrolled: Erewhile! Your little hands were clasped in mine, Your head all ruddy and sun-gold Lay on my breast which was your shrine, And all the tale of love was told: Ah, God, that sweet things should decline, And fires fade out which were not cold, Erewhile.
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