She is not coming home...
I won’t believe she is not coming home…
Waking up every morning beside me will be my bliss…
Now and then your voice speaks softly into my ears…
...
Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
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