The air it breathes of candles burned, Of crimson gold and tinselled dew, Where’er I walk…
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A comfy bed, a weary head; The sheets drip golden lead Into the morning dew, Covering…
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The air it breathes of candles burned, Of crimson gold and tinselled dew, Where’er I walk…
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A comfy bed, a weary head; The sheets drip golden lead Into the morning dew, Covering…
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