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272 Yes, my brother, I know, The rest might not—but I have treasured every note, For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the
 * beach gliding,

Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with
 * the shadows.

Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the
 * sounds and sights after their sorts,

The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listened long and long.

Listened, to keep, to sing—now translating the
 * notes,

Following you, my brother.

''Soothe! Soothe!'' Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping,
 * every one close,

But my love soothes not me.

Low hangs the moon—it rose late, O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love—with love.

O night! O do I not see my love fluttering out there among the
 * breakers?

What is that little black thing I see there in the
 * white?