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 My being, by its own delight possessed, Forgot that it was sleeping on thy breast.

Ay, from his birth each man is vowed and given To a vast loneliness, ungauged, unspanned, Whether by pain and woe his soul be riven, Or all fair pleasures clustered 'neath his hand. His gain by day, his ecstasy by night,— His force, his folly, fierce or faint delight,— Suffering or sorrow, fortune, feud, or care,— Whate'er he find or feel,—he may not share.

Lonely we join the world, and we depart Even as lonely, having lived alone, The breast that feeds us, the beloved one's heart, The lips we kiss,—or curse—alike unknown. Ay, even these lips of thine, so often kissed, What certitude have I that they exist? Alas, it is the truth, though harsh it seems, I have been loved as sweetly in my dreams.

Therefore if I should seem too fiercely fond, Too swift to love, too eager to attain, Forgive the fervour that would forge beyond The limits set to mortal joy and pain. Knowing the soul's unmeasured loneliness, My passion must be mingled with distress, As I, despairing, struggle to draw near What is as unattainable as dear.

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