| EROS D'AUTE... Theodore Wratislaw... |
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Crimson nor yellow roses, nor The savor of the mounting sea Are worth the perfume I adore That clings to thee. |
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The languid-headed lilies tire, The changeless waters weary me. I ache with passionate desire Of thine and thee. |
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There are but these things in the world- Thy mouth of fire, Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled, And my desire! |
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