VI
But what is in your heart, my dear?If every hope is spun of fear,And each delight is called despairBy those who think and those who dare.
What good to you is blue and gold?A love unlit, a tale untold,A dream undreamt, which tries to keepSecure within a fort of sleep?
What though your gleaming hair be spunOut of the fabric of the sun?What if the gentian in your eyesIs stolen from the deepest skies?The sun will set, the brightness fade,Into a grey decline of shade.Then, dearest, let it not be saidYour eyes were drowned in tears unshed,Frightened you locked your love awayInto the cold and sure decayOf unused things, that voiceless dieWithout a laugh, without a cry—
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