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INK, thou strange heart, unto thy rest. Pine now no more, to pine in vain. Doth not the moon on heaven's breast Call the floods home again?

Doth not the summer faint at last? Do not her restless rivers flow When that her transient day is past To hide them in ice and snow?

All this—thy world—an end shall make; Planet to sun return again; The universe, to sleep from wake, In a last peace remain. Alas, the futility of care That, spinning thought to thought, doth weave An idle argument on the air We love not, nor believe.