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Though I since then have numbered o'er Thy voice is on the rolling air;
Some thrice three years: they went and I hear thee where the waters run;
came, Thou standest in the rising sun,
Remade the blood and changed the And in the setting thou art fair.
And yet is love not less, but more,
No longer caring to embalm
In dying songs a dead regret, I do not therefore love thee less.
But like a statue solid-set,
And moulded in colossal calm.
Than in the summers that are flown, I seem to love thee more and more.
For I myself with these have grown Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
To something greater than before;
Which makes appear the songs I made I shall not lose thee though I die.
As echoes out of weaker times,
As half but idle brawling rhymes,
The sport of random sun and shade.
When all that seems shall suffer shock, But where is she, the bridal flower,
That must be made a wife ere noon? Flow through our deeds and make them She enters, glowing like the moon pure;
Of Eden on its bridal bower.