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|The Garden of Shadow|
Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind|
Against the perfect flowers: thy gardens close
Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find
One strayed, last petal of one last years rose.
O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit!|
Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?
Love, that was songful, with a broken lute
In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.
Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers,|
And all thy garden change and glow with spring:
Love is grown blind with no more count of hours
Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created November 12, 2002; not revised.