Our story’s noble as its tragic like the grimace of a tyrant no drama’s chance or magic no detail that’s indifferent makes our great love pathetic And Thomas de Quincey drinking Opiate poison sweet and chaste Of his poor Anne went dreaming We pass we pass since all must pass Often I’ll be returning Memories are hunting horns alas whose note along the wind is dyingSourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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