  I stole into the secret room Where Love lay dying; Mystic and faint perfume Met me like sighing; As heaven had cast a still-born star He lay nor stirred; the shell-thin hand Nerveless of high command Where once the lord-veins sped their fire. And I had thought me glad To let him go. "He reaps His own," I pious said. But this, ah, this Unpleading helplessness! "Give me thy death," I cried, And took it from his lips. The sun came in; And Love high at my side Stood sovereign. |
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