Aug 272011

What ache first calls us from rest,
Bids us rise and dress
As if all were solemn consequence?
The mind that ages in its fears,
Grows tired, rants and tears,
As if every thought were sense?

Until heart and soul and all
Are beaten out of gold,
No dying triumph's made.
Until eye and mind first sprout
Golden tenderness, there is nothing out
That cannot fade.

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