Art thou the breath That burns my being When cold feel my limbs in terror, and awe? Who art thou? My love? Stranger in a strange garb! Far and farther to be nearer to my heart! Why make spring-flames leap From passion's autumn leaves? Why this urge through fatigue When time falls fast asleep Under the shadow of its grave— The winter ice? Yet, and yet The circling winds Repeat passionate speech, The sunset burns, As my soul In desire's golden heat, [29] Though night be not far
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