The life becomes, and because of miracle, debacle, and pinnacle, where the silent soul move to love, The one near the nectar, all and love to prove, Ne’er to hurt the life, e’er to heal… But the bud of jocund blooms as boon; Withal of whimsical melody surging to sing soon, Let my life’s corporeal ne’er taste the malice E’er fills with those ambrosial divine’s chalice.
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