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 Not broken by the ache of love—I go As one grown tired lies down and hopes to sleep. Yet they shall say: "It was for Cercolas; She died because she could not bear her love." They shall remember how we used to walk Here on the cliff beneath the oleanders In the long limpid twilight of the spring, Looking toward Lenmos, where the amber sky Was pierced with the faint arrow of a star. How should they know the wind of a new beauty Sweeping my soul had winnowed it with song? I have been glad tho' love should come or go, Happy as trees that find a wind to sway them, Happy again when it has left them rest. Others shall say, "Grave Dica wrought her death. She would not lift her lips to take a kiss, Or ever lift her eyes to take a smile. She was a pool the winter paves with ice That the wild hunter in the hills must leave With thirst unslaked in the brief southward sun."