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Not me alone, who thinks I stand by thee,
But to give you the pride of enimosity,
I'll more under the burden of thy throne,
Be content rich in numbers, writ on stone;
And where the world has thy feet less measured,
Methinks not in vain of what is mirrored,
That by stillness is stirred this dark dungeon,
The pilgrim of many a star to aborigine,
Of imagined poetic trance, a lady's joy,
A phantom of delight in the young boy,
Whose love you live each day, but each night die,
The uncolour'd imagery of a white lie.


Date Created: Monday, June 03,2013 5: 05: 28 PM

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4/14/2021 11:08:14 AM #