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ou so love me. For, wild Penelope, the web you wove You still unweave, unloving all your love; Is this to love me, Or what rights have I that scorn could deny? Even of your love, alas, poor Love must die, If so you love me! THE END OF IT. She did not love to love; but hated him For making her to love, and so her whim From passion taught misprision to begin; And all this sin Was because love to cast out had no skill Self, which was regent still. Her own self-will made void her own self's will EPILOGUE. If I have studied here in part A tale as old as maiden's heart, 'Tis that I do see herein Shadow of more piteous sin. She, that but giving part, not whole, Took even the part back, is the Soul: And that so disdain-ed Lover-- Best unthought, since Love is over. Love to invite, desire, and fear, And Love's exactions cost too dear Count for Love's possession,--ah, Thy way, misera Anima! To give the pledge, and yet be pined That a pledge should have force to bind, This, O Soul, too often still Is the recreance of thy will! Out of Love's arms to make fond chain, And, because struggle bringeth pain, Hate Love for Love's sweet constraint, Is the way of Souls that faint. Such a Soul, for saddest end, Finds Love the foe in Love the friend; And--ah, grief incredible!-- Treads the way of Heaven, to Hell. MISCELLANEOUS ODES. ODE TO THE SETTING SUN. PRELUDE. The wailful sweetness of the violin Floats down the hush-ed waters of the wind, The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin To long in aching music. Spirit-pined, In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until The wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun, A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill, While one bird prattles that the day is done. O setting Sun, that as in reverent days Sinkest in music to thy smooth-ed sleep, Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays, Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap: For thee this music wakes not. O deceived, If thou hear in these thoughtless harmonies A pious phantom of adorings reaved, And echo of fair anci
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