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1862–1900

His Usual Fate.

Thomas Winthrop Hall

All one season Lost to reason, Breathing sea air By the beach, where

Young hearts mingle, Love was playful All the day full. We were single.

Now with mournful Looks and scornful Turns he too us; He is through us,

Worried, harried. Love is sighing; Love is dying. We are married.

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His Usual Fate. · Thomas Winthrop Hall · Poetry Cove