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[There is a bit of death,]

Anthony Mason


There is a bit of death

In every little kiss

A single serving of the heart

The wary soul would miss.

A quality of loss

That never sings aloud,

But pokes and prods and lingers still

And covers like the shroud

We never can remove

And though we long to save,

The spectacle of love’s caress

Declines the earthly grave.