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166 The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes, The gain of fine things be the loss of all things !

But wit ? I say ...

In love 'tis crime, - 'tis hateful ! Turning frank loving into subtle fencing ! At last the moment comes, inevitable, - - Oh, woe for those who never know that moment ! When feeling love exists in us, ennobling, Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening !

Well, if that moment's come for us - suppose it! What words would serve you ?

All, all, all, whatever That came to me, e'en as they came, I 'd fling them In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet. I love thee ! I am mad ! I love, I stifle ! Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell, And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee, Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth ! All things of thine I mind, for I love all things ; I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month, To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits ! I am so used to take your hair for daylight That, - like as when the eye stares on the sun's disc, One sees long after a red blot on all things - So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted.