The timid tumult of thy mood,

 And thou returning not must still

 Be mine in solitude.

46 

46

 

The Crimson House

 Love built a crimson house,

Love

L

 I know it well,

 That he might have a home

 Wherein to dwell.

 Poor Love that roved so far

 And fared so ill,

 Between the morning star

 And the Hollow Hill,

 Before he found the vale

 Where he could bide,

 With memory and oblivion

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