Spleen

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The roses were so red, so red,
  The ivies altogether black.

If you but merely turn your head,
  Beloved, all my despairs come back!

The sky was over-sweet and blue,
  Too melting green the sea did show.

I always fear,--if you but knew!--
  From your dear hand some killing blow.

Weary am I of holly-tree
  And shining box and waving grass

Upon the tame unending lea,--
  And all and all but you, alas!

© Paul Verlaine