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 Though death with subtle uncovering hands remove The apparel of life and empire from our love, Yet its nude statue-soul of lust made spirit All future times, whether they will't or not, Shall, like a curse-seeming god's boon earth-brought, Inevitably inherit.

«Ay, this thy statue shall I build, and set Upon the pinnacle of being-thine. Let Time By its subtle dim crime Eat it from life, or with men's violence fret To pieces out of unity and presence. Ay, let that be! Our love shall stand so great In thy statue of us, like a god's fate, Our love's incarnate and discarnate essence, That, like a trumpet reaching over seas And going from continent to continent, Our love shall speak its joy and woe, death-blent, Over infinities and eternities!

«The memory of our love shall bridge the ages. It shall loom white out of the past and be Eternal, like a Grecian victory, In every heart the future shall give rages Of not being our love's contemporary.

«Yet oh that this were needed not, and thou Wert the red flower perfuming my life, The garland on the brows of my delight, The living flame on altars of my soul! Would all this were a thing thou mightest now Smile at from under thy death-mocking lids And wonder that I should so put a strife Twixt me and gods for thy lost presence bright; Were there nought in this but my empty dole And thy awakening smile half to condole With what my dreaming pain to hope forbids».