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  There must be no flowers by Lethe set, Or only scentless ones!

Ah, God — the scent of a flower! All else the flesh can endure. But for that — in its hour — in its hour — There is no cure.


 * NOTHING

ILL my love come to me? Alas! I have no love. Though in green and rainy places The fronds of the ferns uncurl. And violets lift their faces To a crescent moon of pearl.

Will my love come to me? Alas! I have no love. Far off — somewhere — a shining head — O sweet Lord Christ who canst raise the dead. Take my soul and give me my love instead! Will my love come to me? Alas! I have no love.