when the proficient poison of sure sleep
bereaves us of our slow tranquillities
 
and He without Whose favour nothing is
(being of men called Love)upward doth leap
from the mute hugeness of depriving deep
 
with thunder of those hungering wings of His,
 
into the lucent and large signories
—i shall not smile,beloved;i shall not weep:
 
when from the less-than-whiteness of thy face
(whose eyes inherit vacancy)will time
extract his inconsiderable doom,
when these thy lips beautifully embrace
nothing
          and when thy bashful hands assume
 
silence beyond the mystery of rhyme

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