Shall I compare thee to an onyx rose?
Too dark for day, too ripe, yet not to rot—
Thou bloom’st where sacred streamlets gently flow,
Where dryads sigh and phantoms sing distraught.
Twin serpents writhe along thy moonlit spine,
Their glistened tongues sing out a breathless psalm;
Your breath the zephyr through the cypress pine,
A storm of touch disguised in...
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