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Poem by Lascelles Abercrombie
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Roses can wound, But not from having thorns they do most harm; Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon'd, Deep in the soul alarm. And it hath been deep within my heart like fear, Girl, when you are near. The mist of sense, Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide, And she must cringe and be ashamed, and wince, Not in appearance hide Of rose or girl from the blazing mastery Of bared Eternity.
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