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Most wounds can Time repair; But some are mortal -- these: For a broken heart there is no balm, No cure for a heart at ease --
At ease, but cold as stone, Though the intellect spin on, And the feat and practiced face may show Nought of the life that is gone;
But smiles, as by habit taught; And sighs, as by custom led; And the soul within is safe from damnation, Since it is dead.
Walter de la Mare
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Read poems about / on: heart, time, life, smile
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