Cold!
L
Leon Gellert
0
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Come not to me with loveliness
Across the crying hill;
For once I held thee pitiless
Hast thou no pity still?
Come not to me with hot delight,
And touch this moveless clay,
Lest my poor heart that knows the night
Awake and feel the day.
Come not to me and kiss this head,
And heat me with thy fire;
For I am dead, and thou art dead;
And dead is my desire.
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