Bastien Wolff
Yet the silver tongue and fingers of the most accomplished of men
Shall lust and hound for your heart into the wild blue of tomorrow
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"My sweet, it is the curse of the artist to forever hate his work and find it unworthy of so much as the lowliest rat. I am honoured that you should praise me, but ashamed to have offered such poor poetry in your favour." As she'd taken his hand, he pulled her fingers up to him and kissed the back of her wrist. "Infinite thanks, O, beauty, though, for your sweet words.
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Tomorrow, my love; nothing now here shall be left in that end,
but the wiles of the heart and the heat of the absence.