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Omar Khayyam
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sometimes think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Caesar bled. That every hyacinth the garden wears; Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head. |
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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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