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| O, hurry, where
by water, among the trees, The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh, When they have looked upon their images Would none had ever loved but you and I! Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed O hurry to the ragged wood, for there |
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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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