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Dorothy Parker - The Willow
Work rating: Low

On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses,
  Long we lay, when the May was new;
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses,
  The bud of the rose was told with dew.

And now on the brittle ground I`m lying,
  Screaming to die with the dead year`s dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
  The willow is tossing the wind from her head.
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