Callimachus

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The Muses are ten,
the Graces are four, but my
one tomb I adore

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The underworld is
a lie, the resurrection
a great evil sleep

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How strange is the lot
of great books! Without deeper
reflection, they die

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I drink from every
well, though I loathe Venus more
than Pluto himself

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Nightingales claw at
the world, their bitter tears the
perfumed common dust

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The laughter of life
is brief; it shines with wine but
Death is a fair thief

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I wept for the wit
of holy poetry . . . the
sun ran with darkness

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