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THE HOUR-GLASS
143
A Lake of Spaces, and a Wood of Nothing,
And wander there and drift, and never cease
Wailing for substance.
Wise Man
Pardon me, blessed Angel,
I have denied and taught the like to others.
But how could I believe before my sight
Had come to me?
Angel
It is too late for pardon.
Wise Man
Had I but met your gaze as now I met it—
But how can you that live but where we go
In the uncertainty of dizzy dreams
