IV-VII SOMETIMES WHEN I AM WEARIED
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ometimes when I am wearied suddenlyOf all the things that are the outward you,And my gaze wanders ere your tale is throughTo webs of my own weaving, or I seeAbstractedly your hands about your kneeAnd wonder why I love you as I do,Then I recall, “Yet _Sorrow_ thus he drew”;Then I consider, “_Pride_ thus painted he.”Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would noteIn me a beauty that was never mine,How first you knew me in a book I wrote,How first you loved me for a written line:So are we bound till broken is the throatOf Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.
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