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[There is a bit of death,]
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.