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Rh Is all and end of our eternity.

Nay, death has had no hostages of me;

I hope no morning from him and I fear

His darkness nothing. It is time. I wait.

Look! Lo! She moves—her hands are raised—she speaks.

Yea, I am she whom men call Helen, maid

Of Troy. Long years the beauty Paris loved

Has been a stir of corn-flowers by that sea

Where memory is a tide and summers fade

Into the past like shadows.

'Tis a trick!

A dream! A phantasy! The dead are dead.

These are no words! A shadow—