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Poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes * * * LET dew the flowers fill; No need of fell despair, Though to the grave you bear One still of soul-but now too still, One fair-but now too fair. For, beneath your feet, the mound, And the waves, that play around, Have meaning in their grassy, and their watery, smiles; And, with a thousand sunny wiles, Each says, as he reproves, Death's arrow oft is Love's. Thomas Lovell Beddoes Thomas Lovell Beddoes's other poems:
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