But great loves, to the last, have pulses red; all great loves that have ever died dropped dead. How can you know my sorrow?
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, no madness in the mind. I love her doubling and anguish. Heaven becomes drowsy in its harmony. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
For love deceives the best of woman kind. How can you know my sorrow?
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