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 I may have all things from me, save my breath. The slight life in my throat will not give pause For your love, nor your loss, nor any cause. Shall I be made a panderer to death, Dig the green ground for darkness underneath, Let the dust serve me, covering all that was With all that will be? Better, from time's claws, The hardened face under the subtle wreath.

Cooler than stones in wells, sweeter, more kind Than hot, perfidious words, my breathing moves Close to my plunging blood. Be strong, and hang Unriven mist over my breast and mind, My breath! We shall forget the heart that loves, Though in my body beat its blade, and its fang.

II I erred, when I thought loneliness the wide Scent of mown grass over forsaken fields, Or any shadow isolation yields. Loneliness was the heart within your side. Your thought, beyond my touch, was tilted air Ringed with as many borders as the wind. How could I judge you gentle or unkind When all bright flying space was in your care?

Now that I leave you, I shall be made lonely By simple empty days,—never that chill Resonant heart to strike between my arms Again, as though distraught for distance,—only Levels of evening, now, behind a hill, Or a late cock-crow from the darkening farms. [ 29 ]