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and slender, and more than ivory white; Whose Sphynx-like riddle it never was mine to read, I implore Thee, by all our moments of past delight, Have pity! Take heed!

How long, Oh, Lord, this crucifixion of me, Whose whole soul faints for a word,—for a single touch? Oh, Thou, whom I seek through Thy sinister mystery, And, understanding so little, desire so much, Have pity on me!

Thy hair was gold, the pale, dim gold of the North, Thy weary attitudes quiet in graceful rest, But Thy tortured and desperate soul looked wildly forth,— Through the eyes of a haunted man, distraught, distressed, By sorrow or wrath.

I would rather share Thy hell, that I dimly guess, Than any alien heaven unknown of Thee. Oh out of Thine own despair, Beloved, heed my distress, And return to me! 91