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 I could not if I would, Beloved, deceive thee. Wouldst thou not feel at once a feigned caress? Yet, do not rise, I would not have thee leave me, My soul needs thine to share its loneliness.

Let the dim starlight, when the low clouds sunder, Silver the perfect outline of thy face. Such faces had the saints; I only wonder That thine has sought my heart for resting-place. 66