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There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
What is he buzzing in my ears?
“Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?”
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be