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Wert Cold and Chill
Wert cold and chill
In thy death-trance lying,
I'd pluck thee still
From the midmost dying,
A cure for thine ill
With my heart-blood buying.
Thy cheeks' pale ashes
Should burn and glow,
Through lifting lashes
Thy soul should show
Redeemed from the cachés
Of under-woe.
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