Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden`s close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year`s rose. O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit! Can famine be so nigh to harvesting? Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring. Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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