THE POET AND HIS BOOK
All the empty afternoon?
When sweet lovers pause and wonder
Who am I that lie thereunder,
Hidden from the moon?
This my personal death?-
That my lungs be failing
To inhale the breath
Others are exhaling?
This my subtle spirit's end?-
Ah, when the thawed winter splashes
Over these chance dust and ashes,
Weep not me, my friend!
Me, by no means dead
In that hour, but surely
When this book, unread,
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