THE DESIRE TO GIVE

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They who would comfort guess not the main grief—
Not that her hand is never on my hair,
Her lips upon my brow; the time is brief
At longest, and I grow inured to bear.
All that was ever mine I have and hold;
But that I cannot give by day or night
My poor gift which was dear to her of old,
And poorly given—that loss is infinite.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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