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The Fever

Rating: 2.6
The brooms glow in the desolate moors;
on the ochre hills, the heather sings:
But you cannot heal my sad heart or ease
The memory of my poor dead child.

Come: it is springtime in the valley;
Sweet as her voice, the water whispers in passing,
And clear as her laughter is the growing angelus;
Fresh as her mouth is the wet foam.
I have the fever: Come, close to the rosemary,
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6/23/2021 12:56:25 PM # 1.0.0.632