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Please, darling nymph, give elbow and eyelash.
Give me my own again
For I forsake all comfort
All sorrow and all bonds for you.
The Lord of Wreath and Feather cannot touch us now.
We are as corpses rotted for love
Beyond all help or harm
Untouched by might or charms outside our own.
If armies grow or spread
If circuses await, we know not or care.
For us there is no dark or fair
But here in store.
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