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Night with a sudden splendour opens wide
Her purple robe, and bares her silver side,
The moon, her bosom, fills the world with light,—
Only thy breast is lowlier, my bride.
With twilight dew each rose's face is wet,
Morning was grey upon them when we met,
Still must I drink, and still must drink with thee,—
Tis many laughing hours to bed-time yet.
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