i sent thee late a rosy wreath not so much honouring thee as giving it a hope that there..
it could not withered be; but thou thereon didst only breath
and sent,st it back to me !!!
since when it grows and smells ...
i swear ....
not of itself but thee!!
.ناصر
..
THERE grows a white, white flower
By the wild Alps of romance;
And who would reach its dainty leaves
Takes life and death in chance.
There is a dark, dark cavern
Where a woman goes alone,
Takes hope and peril in her hand
And fights Death on his throne.
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