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Poem by Madison Julius Cawein
I What though the soul be tired For that to which 'twas fired, The far, dear, still desired, Beyond the heaven's scope; Beyond us and above us, The thing we would have love us, That will know nothing of us, But only bids us hope. II It still behooves us ever From loving ne'er to sever, To love it though it never Reciprocate our care; For love, when freely given, Lets in soft hints of heaven In memories that leaven Black humors of despair. III For in this life diurnal All earthly, gross, infernal, Conflicts with that eternal To make its love as lust; To rot the fairest flower Of thought which is a power, All happiness to sour, And burn our eyes with dust. IV Believe, some power higher Breathes in us this desire With purpose strange as fire, And soft though seeming hard; Who to such starved endeavor And wasted love, that never Seems recompensed, forever Gives in His way reward.
Madison Julius Cawein
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