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To think that
this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless,
colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bliss,
If we wait till the close?
Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes
the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can
mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we
cannot re-bend.
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