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In thy coach of state / Pass, O King, along: …
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I Made the cross myself whose weight / Was later laid on me. …
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O Nightingale, the poet’s bird, / A kinsman dear thou art, …
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Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees, / Blacks buds, that sun and shower distend; …
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I Shall go out when the light comes in— / There lie my cast-off form and face; …
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I Ask not how thy suffering came, / Or if by sin, or if by shame, …
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Brown earth-line meets gray heaven, / And all the land looks sad; …
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I Went to dig a grave for Love, / But the earth was so stiff and cold …
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My body answers you, my blood / Leaps at your maddening, piercing call …
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Thank God that shall judge my soul, not man! / I marvel when they say, …