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— William Shakespeare"The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose."
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The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
— William Blake
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Love, that is day and night - love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, no other words but words of love, no other thought but love.
— Walt Whitman
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