And wash my wound in the snows; that would be
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ecause my heart would throb less painful there, Being caked with cold and past the smart of feeling. And where I went, the hugest winter blast Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs stream-ing, And though I think this heart’s blood froze not fast, It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming, 24 Dear love, these fingers that had known your touchAnd tied our separate forces first together, Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much,
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