| What is it in nature which lends its hand
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| To the tongues of young wondering lovers in flight,
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| That by the silent mood of a dying word
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| A scythe was taught to moan and to write?
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| What is it that is left for the blushing cheek
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| To blink the lips of a blooming rose,
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| When lovers' eyes as black as summer crows
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| Picked the blackened rose that they seeked?
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| What has not been taken by a lover’s greed?
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| What has not been taken by a lover’s greed?
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| What then from all the vine and seed?
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| On the fragant air of spring they feed.
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| They come in swarms of two, like me and you,
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| Fattened by the love that they need.
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| What has not been taken by a lover’s greed?
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| What has not been taken by a lover’s greed?
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| On and on they come
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| Forever saying I would die without you.
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| In the chasm of these eyes, nothing satisfies.
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| Staring into the starry-eyed infinite.
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| Can’t get enough of it
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| Can’t get enough…
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| Can’t get enough of it
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| Can’t get enough…
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| Why is it then my pen should stall
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| When by your wondrous eyes I shake?
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| When we, this world is ours to take
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| What has not been taken by a lover’s greed? |