| Tomorrow waits me at my gates
|
| While all my yesterdays swarm near
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| And one mouth whines, too late
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| Too late and one is dumb with fear
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| Was this the all that life could give
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| Me, who from cradle hungered on
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| Body and soul aflame to live
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| Giving my all and then be gone
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| Have done with moaning, idiot heart
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| If it so be that love has wings
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| I with my shears will find an art
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| To still her flutterings
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| Wrench of that bandage to will I
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| And show the wimp she’s blind indeed
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| Hot irons shall prove my mastery
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| She shall not weep but bleed
|
| And when at last I journey where
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| All thought of you I must resign
|
| Will the least memory of me be fair
|
| Or will you even my ghost malign
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| I wake and watch when the moon is here
|
| A shadow tracks me on
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| And I, darker than my shadow
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| Fear her fabulous inconsistency
|
| Have done with moaning, idiot heart
|
| If it so be that love has wings
|
| I with my shears will find an art
|
| To still her flutterings
|
| Your maddening face befools my eyes
|
| Your hand I wake to feel
|
| Lost in deep midnight’s black surmise
|
| Its touch my veins congeal
|
| And when at last I journey where
|
| All thought of you I must resign
|
| Will the least memory of me be fair
|
| Or will you even my ghost malign |