Take me away from here,
And let me cry all my tears,
On your shoulder at night,
And I will leave at first light.
This is no fantasy my dear,
They are what they appear,
For I, me, myself will die,
It will come with one last sigh.
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Poetry
Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the pleasant land.
Thus the little minutes,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity . . .
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the pleasant land.
Thus the little minutes,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity . . .