Poetry
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With glances, of blue, Skin, of ivory, You shall wear, a crown, Dressed, in simplicity.
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Violet skin, when blushing bright. Take all to sin, in desperate flight. Send the priests, fleeing, All full in hands, to the night.
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Here, the moon raises, to a peak, To draw the curves, of your form. I was right, when I asked, “When, will I become forlorn?”
Modern Romanticism 