WINGED HOURS
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ach hour until we meet is as a birdThat wings from far his gradual way alongThe rustling covert of my soul,--his songStill loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr'd:But at the hour of meeting, a clear wordIs every note he sings, in Love's own tongue;Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain wrong,Through our contending kisses oft unheard. What of that hour at last, when for her sakeNo wing may fly to me nor song may flow;When, wandering round my life unleaved, IThe bloodied feathers scattered in the brake,And think how she, far from me, with like eyesSees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies?
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