'Tis kind betray;
against my bore;
'tis mindless pray;
upon my Lord,
for how mistakes
shall not adore;
my softly stake
sole ruins for,
what's earthly made;
what's youthful old;
was mine to take;
and mine to hold.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry is a sense-blossoming flower that never wilts.
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'Tis kind betray;
against my bore;
'tis mindless pray;
upon my Lord,
for how mistakes
shall not adore;
my softly stake
sole ruins for,
what's earthly made;
what's youthful old;
was mine to take;
and mine to hold.