If we speak loud
Let our voice be music. A tone
That rings like heaven,and sings like murmurous
Wintry leaves that lie aloof,hopeless; neither shakes
Nor moves by sprinkling rain. Let our eyes
Stand,unshaken and firmly fixed in the look
Of a dead fish, moving around the globe.
It was meant to touch Cupid's arrow
Once shot,and gained,and proved
The worth of goal; not love,nor soul dwells
In such pursuit, so dearly-achieved.
But always,somewhere,some deadly desire winks
And speaks oblique.
Let our practised-love seek for it.
What else remains for us in the mundane multitude
Of eyes,that once faced the sun? And dared to die
In a sort of fit?
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