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Sonnet From The Portuguese Of Camoens
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In youth's first flush when hearts are light
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No wonder if thy pulses thrill
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The Poet To His Lyre
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To the Mocking-Bird
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Ruth
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Yes! let us part, while yet we may
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Quel labbro, che le rose han colorito
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Odi d'un uom che muore
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When steel and lodestone touch they cleave
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