To Memory
Strange Power, I know not what thou art,Murderer or mistress of my heart.I know I'd rather meet the blowOf my most unrelenting foeThan live---as now I live---to beSlain twenty times a day by thee.
Yet, when I would command thee hence,Thou mockest at the vain pretence,Murmuring in mine ear a songOnce loved, alas! forgotten long;And on my brow I feel a kissThat I would rather die than miss.
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