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William Blake

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The moon like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,
Sits and smiles on the night.
--
Night, st. 1

 
William Blake

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Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
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At night the sea is very loud,
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A little longer still, and Heaven awaits thee,
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Oh, when a mother meets on high
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