Lament
There is a chill deeper than that of death,
In the return of the beloved and not of love.
And there is no warmth for it
But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun —
Or the warmth of lament for beauty,
Which is graven on many stones.
And yet I would be with you a little while,
Dear ghost.
I will endure even the marsh-mist on my throat
And the fingers of the moon.
In the return of the beloved and not of love.
And there is no warmth for it
But the warmth of a world which needs more than the sun —
Or the warmth of lament for beauty,
Which is graven on many stones.
And yet I would be with you a little while,
Dear ghost.
I will endure even the marsh-mist on my throat
And the fingers of the moon.
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