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Poem	What body can be ploughed, Sown, and broken yearly? But she would not die, she vowed, But she has, nearly. Sing, heart sing; Call and carol clearly. And, since she could not die, Care would be a feather, A film over the eye Of two that lie together. Fly, song, fly, Break your little tether. So from strength concealed She makes her pretty boast: Plain is a furrow healed And she may love you most. Cry, song, cry, And hear your crying lost.
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