O ivory, delicate hands! O face that hovers Between ‘To-come’ and ‘Was,’ Ivory thou wast, A rose thou wilt be.
“Weep for the dead, for they have lost this light; And weep for me, lost in an endless night. Or mourn, or make a marble verse for me, Who writ for many. Benedicte.”
Robert Herrick | “On Himself”
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