II
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nd now Love sang: but his was such a song,So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free,As souls disused in death's sterilityMay sing when the new birthday tarries long.And I was made aware of a dumb throngThat stood aloof, one form by every tree,All mournful forms, for each was I or she,The shades of those our days that had no tongue. They looked on us, and knew us and were known;While fast together, alive from the abyss,Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss;And pity of self through all made broken moanWhich said, 'For once, for once, for once alone!'And still Love sang, and what he sang was this:--
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