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Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Song
Work rating: Medium

Tho` veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro` the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade !

But thro` the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love`s flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain :
And only Hilt and Stump remain.
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