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Passer Mortuus Est
Death devours all lovely things;
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness,—presently
Every bed is narrow
Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation,
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.
After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Now that love is perished?
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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