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That I could move,-and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak,-and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you. I have been torn
In two, and suffer for the rest of me
What is my life to me? And what am I
To life,-a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained

Against the taut strings of the quivering air,