No praise to me! My joy 'twas to be nothing but the glass Thro' which the general boon of Heaven should pass, To focus upon thee. Nor is't thy blame Thou first should'st glow, and, after, fade i' the flame. It takes more might Than God has given thee, Dear, so long to feel delight. Shall I, alas, Reproach thee with thy change and my regret? Blind fumblers that we be About the portals of felicity! The wind of words would scatter, tears would wash Quite out the little heat Beneath the silent and chill-seeming ash, Perchance, still slumbering sweet.
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