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ADONIS
Love, with throbbing heart of fire,—
Love, with thrilling voice and low,—
Hast thou quenchèd fond desire
In this breast of snow?
Then, O Death! I cry to you
From my grief immortal:
Goddess kind—of all most true—
Ope to me your portal!
In your calm my senses steep;
Close mine eyes, from tears grown dim;
Give me sleep—I ask but sleep—
In the grave, with him.
Can it be that flowers will spring
Where all lifeless Love shall lie?
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