  Wanting is—what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, —Where is the blot? Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same —Framework which waits for a picture to frame;5 What of the leafage, what of the flower? Roses embowering with naught they embower! Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! Breathe but one breath10 Rose-beauty above, And all that was death Grows life, grows love, Grows love! |
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