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Poem by Francis Thompson
Love, like a wind, shook wide your blosmy eyes, You trembled, and your breath came sobbing-wise For that you loved me. You were so kind, so sweet, none could withhold To adore, but that you were so strange, so cold; For that you loved me. Like to a box of spikenard did you break Your heart about my feet. What words you spake! For that you loved me. Life fell to dust without me; so you tried All carefullest ways to drive me from your side, For that you loved me. You gave yourself as children give, that weep And snatch back, with--'I meant you not to keep!' For that you loved me. I am no woman, girl, nor ever knew That love could teach all ways that hate could do To her that loved me. Have less of love, or less of woman in Your love, or loss may even from this begin-- That you so love me. For, wild Penelope, the web you wove You still unweave, unloving all your love; Is this to love me, Or what rights have I that scorn could deny? Even of your love, alas, poor Love must die, If so you love me!
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