A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed,
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of the roses
Now lie dead.
Here, now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
Like a God self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.
A. C. Swinburne
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