Monday, March 17, 2014

The Creeping Scyther



                                    Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
                                    not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your
                                    gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment,
                                    that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
                                    now, to mock your own grinning?

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