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say I have a constant heart, who know Not anything of how it turns and yields First here, first there; nor how in separate fields It runs to reap and then remains to sow; How, with quick worship, it will bend and glow Before a line of song, an antique vase, Evening at sea; or in a well-loved face Seek and find all that Beauty can bestow.

Yet they do well who name it with a name, For all its rash surrenders call it true. Though many lamps be lit, yet flame is flame; The sun can show the way, a candle too. The tribute to each fragment is the same Service to all of Beauty—and her due. 143