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Emily Dickinson
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slowly, Eden Lips unused to thee. Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee, Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums, Counts his nectars -alights, And is lost in balms! |
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Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh, When I am sad and
weary. When I think all hope has gone. Those have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont,
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