Would thou withhold from me the thing thy presence makes me know I need? Cruel 'twould be to shade me here, and even shower mist around and one me, and yet to grant no sating shower.
Chill to bone am I, or say that only bones are chilled within, and want the warmth thy smile swore. My flesh, though warm, has not the warmth that bone might take to quench its icy core.
Hollow 'tis, this life that, sturdy, on thee must depend. Hollow is a cave; would thou, warm, the chill explore?
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