at midnight, in the month of june, i stand beneath the mystic moon. an opiate vapor, dewy, dim, exhales from out her golden rim, and, softly dripping, drop by drop, upon the quiet mountain top, steals drowsily and musically into the universal valley. the rosemary nods upon the grave; the lily lolls upon the wave; wrapping the fog about its breast, the ruin molders into rest; looking like lethe, see! the lake a conscious slumber seems to take, and would not, for the world, awake. all beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies Irene, with her destinies!
who wrote this somber poem of old- his name rings clear inside the lines. what title may this one verse hold- its bitter-sweet like liquors and wines.
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at midnight, in the month of june,
i stand beneath the mystic moon.
an opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
exhales from out her golden rim,
and, softly dripping, drop by drop,
upon the quiet mountain top,
steals drowsily and musically
into the universal valley.
the rosemary nods upon the grave;
the lily lolls upon the wave;
wrapping the fog about its breast,
the ruin molders into rest;
looking like lethe, see! the lake
a conscious slumber seems to take,
and would not, for the world, awake.
all beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her destinies!
who wrote this somber poem of old-
his name rings clear inside the lines.
what title may this one verse hold-
its bitter-sweet like liquors and wines.
heart~a.
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discover who it is that wrought
somber poem, so marvelous
by whose lips, though writ, begot
love again, anonymous
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heart,....a!
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it was good seeing you the other night.
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