The House of Life. Sonnet 37. The Love-Moon
'When that dead face, bowered in the furthest years, Which once was all the life years held for thee, Can now scarce bid the tides of memory Cast on thy soul a little spray of tears,-- How canst thou gaze into these eyes of hers Whom now thy heart delights in, and not see Within each orb Love's philtred euphrasy Make them of buried troth remembrancers?' 'Nay, pitiful Love, nay, loving Pity! Well Thou knowest that in these twain I have confess'd Two very voices of thy summoning bell. Nay, Master, shall not Death make manifest In these the culminant changes which approve The love-moon that must light my soul to Love?'
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