(Earlier Version)

Like lights that pass, each motion of the mind
Flies through the world, seeking its fellow thought;
And if but in the twinkling of his days
A man shall chance to meet the kindred one —
Then happiness! No more he needs to burn
Beside the fire of dearth that pipe, whose smoke
Prays to the heedless stars of lonely men.

Then in a rare and wonderful abode
Where wit comes not, and thinking has no part,
A tender comedy is played and played,
That holds the magic meaning of the spheres,
And, than the murmur of two meeting rills
Has no more sense — yet — all the sense there is
In this, our dream, and that, our coming sleep.

And when it's gone, or if it never come,
Then in the grieving dark we grope along;
Within the shuttered mazes of our souls
We wander, and again fall wandering.
The endless winds that sweep across the plain,
Beggars who meet us in the silent night,
Are not more shorn of company than we!
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