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Georgia Douglas Johnson
131
WELT
Would I might mend the fabric of my youth
That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,
Would I might compromise awhile with truth
Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.
For I would go a further while with you,
And drain this cup so tantalant and fair
Which meets my parchèd lips like cooling dew,
Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair!
