IN days of ancient history
Who were you? Tell me if you know.
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There shall be a song for both of us that day
Though fools say you have long outlived your
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WHEN, on an empty night in later years
Thou ponderest over sorrowful sweet things,
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ANDROMEDA.
Chained to the years by the measureless wrong of man,
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"The lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed."-
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COME here, rekindle the old fire,
This last night leave no lamp unlit!
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FAREWELL is said! Yea, but I cannot take
All that my Greeting gave.
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Round them a fierce, wide, crazy noon
Heaves with crushed lips and glowing sides
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CHANGE shall accustom me in after years
To kingdom's builded on life's overthrow;
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THE hand of carnival was at my door,
I listened to its knocking, and sped down:
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Did he forget? . . . I do not remember,
All I had of him once I still have to-day;
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Are you my songs, importunate of praise?
Be still, remember for your comforting
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ASK not my pardon! For if one hath need
Once to forgive the god that he hath raised,
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Dawn has flashed up the startled skies,
Night has gone out beneath the hill
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THIS POEM, DEDICATED TO HIS MOTHER.
To twilight heads comes Death as comes a friend.
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O, MANDRAGORA, many sing in praise
Of life, and death, and immortality,--
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'I thought you loved me.' 'No, it was only fun.'
'When we stood there, closer than all?' 'Well, the harvest moon
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Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed
How sweet your slow, divine stupidity,
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Do you remember, Leda?
There are those who love, to whom Love brings
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Unaware of its terror,
And but half aware
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I am one of the wind's stories,
I am a fancy of the rain,—
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I am growing old: I have kept youth too long,
But I dare not let them know it now.
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TAKE as you will, slake, solace, and possess
While Youth, with laughter, scatters tears that fall
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I will not have roses in my room again,
Nor listen to sonnets of Michael Angelo
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MOST blessed one, how can I let thee go?
Canst thou forswear the nightingale its tune--
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I am not true, but you would pardon this
If you could see the tortured spirit take
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"What did she leave?" . . .
Only these hungry miser-words, poor heart!
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A STREET at night, a silent square
That mirth forbids;
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BRING out your dead before you reap
From lips beloved infection dread;
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DRINK of our Cup--of the red wine that burns in it,
All the wild shames that have crusted its mouth,
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