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Sonnets Of The Blood Viii

Rating: 2.9

Not power nor the casual hand of God
Shall keep us whole in our dissevering air,
It is a stink upon this pleasant sod
So foul, the hovering buzzard sees it fair;
I ask you will it end therefore tonight
And the moth tease again the windy flame,
Or spiders, eating their loves, hide in the night
At last, drowsy with self-devouring shame?
Call it the house of Atreus where we live-
Which one of us the Greek perplexed with crime

Questions the future: bring that lucid sieve
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