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And seek to dare the whole, Till, space and storm and sunshine past, Thou find'st thou art alone at last.

But love will be thy recompense, The love that haunts thy line; Ay, dream of love, but do not dream It ever will be thine. His shadow, not himself, will come; Too spiritual to be his home, Thy heart is but his shrine; For vainest of all earthly things The poet's vain imaginings.

Go, still the throbbing of thy brow, The beating of thy heart;