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Rh

I seek thee, though thy King be no more in thee,

Though where the balm hath been of old—

Thy Gilead's balm—be poisonous adders lurking,

Winged scorpions manifold.

Is it not to thy stones I shall be tender?

Shall I not kiss them verily?

Shall not the earth-taste on my lips be sweeter

Than honey—the earth of thee?