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Dormant As Death.

Dormant as death Miss Pretty comes,
Her eyes are olives set in stone,
Hair waving and heart aflame,

Sits eastward to westward half in joy
Semi fulfilled and such as not,
Blowing kisses to an empty room,

Which, being burned in dust,
Fellow ghosts take oft as theirs,
And viewing neighbours death and dark

Closes her eyes and welcomes sleep.

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