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Poem by Matthew Arnold
IN THIS fair stranger’s eyes of grey Thine eyes, my love, I see. I shudder: for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life: that not A nobler calmer train Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot Our passions from our brain; But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-chok’d souls to fill, And we forget because we must, And not because we will. I struggle towards the light; and ye, Once-long’d-for storms of love! If with the light ye cannot be, I bear that ye remove. I struggle towards the light; but oh, While yet the night is chill, Upon Time’s barren, stormy flow, Stay with me, Marguerite, still!
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