You bad little boy, not much you care
Praying in the church's banquet, angel's age,
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
It has to do with full moments
Where are the passions they essayed,
Who can live in heart so glad
It little profits that an idle king,
Man may escape from rope and gun,
In the decent old days
They sunk a graven stone into the ground
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
The plunging limbers over the shattered track
We were apart, yet, day by day,
The sovereign beauty which I do admire,
'Tis time the heart should be unmoved,
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
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