  Broods the hid glory in its sheath of gloom Till strikes the destined hour, and bursts the bloom, A rapture of white passion and perfume. So the long day is like a bud That aches with coming bliss, Till flowers in light the wondrous night That brings me to thy kiss. Then, with a thousand sorrows forgotten in one hour, In thy pure eyes and at thy feet I find at last my goal; And life and hope and joy seem but a faint prevision |
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