  Sweet, though death may have thee utterly, Thou art with me: For when I sleep, mine ear Wakes for thy voice, to hear Thee; and I know at last that thou art near. My soul then seems to put out hands, At thy commands, Through the thin veils of flesh That hold it in a mesh, For thy two hands to consecrate afresh. Thoughts that all day are hidden deep Rise up in sleep: The reconciling night Holds thee for my delight, Beyond the senses or of sound or sight. |
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