  MEN, women, call thee so and so; I do not know. Thou hast no name For me, but in my heart a flame Burns tireless, ’neath a silver vine; And round entwine Its purple girth All things of fragrance and of worth. Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb Of pain! thou sob! Thou like a bar Of some sonata, heard from far Through blue-hued veils! When in these wise, To my soul’s eyes Thy shape appears, My aching hands are full of tears. |
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