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Poem	Come, thrust your hands in the warm earth And feel her strength through all your veins; Breathe her full odors, taste her mouth, Which laughs away imagined pains; Touch her life's womb, yet know This substance makes your grave also. Shrink not; your flesh is no more sweet Than flowers which daily blow and die; Nor are your mein and dress so neat, Nor half so pure your lucid eye; And, yet, by flowers and earth I swear You're neat and pure and sweet and fair.
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