| Like mine, the veins of these that slumber |
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| Yon flakes that fret the eastern sky |
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| Illic Jacet |
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| He, standing hushed, a pace or two apart |
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| The Chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers |
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| From the wash the laundress sends |
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| Yonder see the morning blink |
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| On forelands high in heaven |
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| The Culprit |
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| He looked at me with eyes I thought |
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