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Algernon Charles Swinburne
Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
Dead love.
His heart, that strained and yearned and strove
As toward the sundawn strives the lark,
Is cold as all the old joy thereof.
Dead men, re-arisen from dust, may hark
When rings the trumpet blown above:
It will not raise from out the dark
Dead love.
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