So tight that Time’s an old god’s dream
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o think on after, make it seem Less than the breath of children playing,A blasphemy scarce worth the saying, A sorry jest, “When love has grownTo kindliness—to kindliness!” . . .And yet—the best that either’s knownWill change, and wither, and be less, At last, than comfort, or its ownRemembrance. And when some caressTendered in habit (once a flame
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