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 ::::A LOOK WOULD not stop you on your way; I would not bind your feet; Or on your shining forehead lay One shadow of defeat. Go forward — if you turn, the crowd Might trample you with me. Let the flute-players play more loud And the dancers dance more free I But once before the palace gate Rolls back and I'm bereft — Turn and look on me; and if fate Has any pity left, A passing mist upon your eyes Will redeem every sacrifice.