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O, how the light drifts from the hemlock grove,

How in the night disarmed Desires do rove!

A sister to the dumb hydrangea thou,

A mystery born of the Then and Now.

The color on thy clouded face—ah me!

Is't from the embers that still burn in thee?

Has not the forge of suffering robbed thee of

The flame with which weak mortals feed their love?

Wilt thou, no longer fancying the light,

Conjure a virgin flame from darkest night?

And feed it with the salvias of a soul,

That would, but yet—alas! she seeks the Whole.

The hand that broke the screen, the heart that lied,—

Where are they? Come, the path of truth is wide.

The silvery cataracts of roaring rills

Meander in the shadows of the hills;

And their bass music,—does it not arise

From that descent that leads up to the skies?

O how disarmed Desire uprises, how—

Does not the darkness crown the Lightning's brow?