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Alone

Autumnal

Clark Ashton Smith

In all the pleasances where Love was lord,
Blossom the mournful immortelles alone;
The fallen roses crumble, and are blown,
A snow of red, about the barren sward.

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made

A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made

A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific'd to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray'd,
That languish in resistless Fire.

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