Yet who plucks me?-no one mourns,
I have lived my season out,
And now die of my own thorns
Which I could not live without.
Sweet, be merry! How the light
Comes and goes! If it be night,
Keep the candles in my sight.
Between the Lines.
Literature
The 2010 CIA World Factbook
The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court
The Motor Girls
The Moorland Cottage
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