Monday, March 30, 2009

William Shakespeare ( King John, IV, I, 93)

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed,walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks,repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then have I a reason to be fond of grief.

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