| Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
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| Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
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| Would wither up, an any boy of love
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| Look twice before he fell from grace.
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| The features in their private dark
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| Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come
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| And from her lips the faded pigments fall,
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| The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast.
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| I have been told to reason by the heart,
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| But heart, like head, leads helplessly;
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| I have been told to reason by the pulse,
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| And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace
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| Till field and roof lie level and the same
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| So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman
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| Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.
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| I have heard may years of telling,
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| And many years should see some change.
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| The ball I threw while playing in the park
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| Has not yet reached the ground. |