  On the wide waste the web of twilight, trembling Hangs low with stars and night; The dying day in the worn west, dissembling, Crowns his defeat with light. Here by the grave, gray sea my soul sinks crying, By beauty stabbed to death— “O, in the dusk of the world, let me, too, dying, Mix with all these my breath!” There is no answer. In the cold heavens shining, Star trembles unto star: The virgin moon in the clear west declining |
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