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An End

Rating: 2.8
Love, strong as Death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
Among the dying flowers:
A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
In the quiet evening hours.

He was born in the Spring,
And died before the harvesting:
On the last warm summer day
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COMMENTS
Crystal like 06 March 2019
very nature like poem, love it
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