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						An Immorality by Ezra Pound 
						
						Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having.
  Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living.
  And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving,
  Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing.						 
						
						
						
						
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