At once she flung her faint form shieldingly
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lanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse,And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh,My sad thoughts moving thuswise: “I may house And I may husband her, yet what am IBut licensed tyrant to this bonded pair?Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.” . . . Hurling my iron to the bushes there,I bade them stay. And, as if brain and breastWere passive, they walked with me to the stair.
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