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 Would, still more perfect, on Time's shoulders borne, Overlook the great Morn From an eternal East.

«Thy statue is of thyself and of me. Our dual presence has its unity In that perfection of body, which my love, In loving it, did out of mortal life Raise into godness, set above the strife Of times and changing passions far above.

«The end of days, when Jove is born again, And Ganymede again pour at his feast, Shall see our dual soul from death released And recreated unto love, joy, pain, Life—all the beauty and the vice and lust, All the diviner side of flesh, flesh-staged. And, if our very memory wore to dust, By the giant race of the end of ages must Our dual presence once again be raised.»

It rained still. But slow-treading night came in Closing the weary eyelids of each sense. The very consciousness of self and soul Grew, like a landscape through dim raining, dim. The Emperor lay still, so still that now He half forgot where now he lay, or whence The sorrow that was still salt on his lips. All had been something very far, a scroll Rolled up. The things he felt were like the rim That haloes round the moon when the night weeps.

His head was bowed into his arms, and they On the low couch, foreign to his sense, lay. His closed eyes seemed open to him and seeing The naked floor, dark, cold, sad and unmeaning. His hurting breath was all his sense could know.