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Spheral Change

Rating: 2.7

IN this new shade of Death, the show
Passes me still of form and face;
Some bent, some gazing as they go,
Some swiftly, some at a dull pace,
Not one that speaks in any case.
If only one might speak!—the one
Who never waits till I come near;
But always seated all alone
As listening to the sunken air,
Is gone before I come to her.

O dearest! while we lived and died
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