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am thy suffering servant all the year; And when I wake thy name is on my lips, And when I sleep I feel thy finger-tips Press'd on mine eyes, as if thy wraith were there, To save my soul from night's entire eclipse. ix. Till I have heard from thee my doom of death I shall be proud to serve thee with my breath, And with my labour, and be thine withal As Man is God's,--content with any thrall That's bound in thee; content with any lot That's link'd with thine, in some secluded spot Which thou hast lov'd, O Lady! in the past, And where remorse and wrong will find us not. x. To know thee fair, ah God! how sweet is this; To find thee wavering, and to grasp in bliss Only the dream of thee, how sad the while! And yet, by reason of a moment's smile, How grand to hope, how gracious to forget! Thou false to me? Thou heedless of a debt Of love's incurring? Nay, by Juno's crown, Thy snow-white hand shall be my guerdon yet! xi. The spirit-love that leads us to the soul Athwart the body as its fairest goal,-- The love that lives in languor undefined And yet is strong,--the love that can be kind And yet aggressive as a soldier's blade, Keen to the hilt, entranced and not afraid,-- This is the love that will survive the death Of all endowments which the years have made. xii. Wilt frown at this? Wilt chide me? Wilt appeal, As some are wont, when lovers, out of zeal, O'erstep the bounds of wisdom which hath ceased To win men's praise? The Matins of the East Sung by the lark,--the Credo of the Cloud Which oft he sings in confirmation proud Of his great love,--all this were mine excuse If I could sing as he, so dawn-endow'd. xiii. For I'd be welcome, then, where'er thou art, And gladden thee, and play as prompt a part As Romeo play'd with Juliet at his breast. Who loves not love, who hates to be caress'd, Is Nature's bane; and I'll denounce him, too. For he's a foe to all that's just and true In earth and Heaven; and when he seeks a joy, His quest shall fail,--his hand shall miss the clue. xiv. We know these things. We know how dark a word May let in light, and how the smallest bird May mix the morn with music till we think The fire-lit air is wine for us to drink,-- And every drop salvation,--every sound A Muse's whisper,--all the flower-full ground A fancy-carpet fit for knights to tread When on their way to Arthur's Table Round. xv. A peevish fool
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