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DEARTH
As one who faring o'er a desert plain
Sees fountains clear in the mirage arise,
And, parchèd, longs the nectar sweet to gain
Which still before him flies—
So, wistfully, half doubting, half-believing,
Scornful of hope—yet hopeful, self-deceiving,
I thirst for love, which wastes before my eyes.
