1906 · CLOSE READING
Gargoyles
Gargoyles (1906), PDF p. 85
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This is our marriage; firmer than the root
Of love or lust could plant our joy, my wife,
We stand in this, the purple-seeded fruit
Of yon youth’s fair and pitiable life.
Do I not fear that you may treat me so?
One day your passion slake itself somehow,
Seek vigour from another murder? No!
You harlot, for I mean to kill you—now.
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