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The sonnetteers that sang about their wounding,
And turned their tears to stones that nothing dims
(If ever tears have come so sweetly-sounding),
And turned their hands to want of mouths and limbs,
Have built their ladies everlasting houses
Of fading snow and fire and falling roses,
And made of her who would not yield to pleas
A tree whose fruit shall always feed and please,
Desire eternised in its own eclipse.
The very words that never won a kiss,
Wrung from a pain that could not reach to bliss,
As relics have, have brushed a million lips.
But when I looked to write the like of you, my friend,
I found my thought a fountain that would not be penned.



John Gibbens



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