  The star, after beaming so brightly, From the sky fell, a vision unsightly, What is the love by poets sung? A star amid a heap of dung. Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying, Beneath all this filth it is lying; Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow, And wallows in the fearful slough. In the garden O had I descended, By fair flowerets lovingly tended, Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom, A virgin death, a fragrant tomb! |
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