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The ills I sorrow at Not me alone Like an arrow, Pierce to the marrow, Through the fat, And past the bone

Your grief and mine Must intertwine Like sea and river, Be fused and mingle, Diverse yet single, Forever and forever.

Let no man be so proud And confident, To think he is allowed A little tent Pitched in a meadow Of sun and shadow All his little own.

Joy may be shy, unique, Friendly to a few, Sorrow never scorned to speak To any who Were false or true.

Your every grief Like a blade Shining and unsheathed Must strike me down. Of bitter aloes wreathed, My sorrow must be laid On your head like a crown

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