Weeping, moaning and shuddering
Is there no end to this horrid night?
The last days of autumn diverge.
Always my lips tremble when
I think of the pithless drawl of my life
Until the end of days our spirits wither.
Love in the dead of night is
As love has never been
For the flame burns brighter under the moon than the sun.
But if the play is devoid of paroxysm
And the actors are of an anti-climax lieu commun
Then may death be the favour of us all.
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