NOT heat flames up and consumes,
  Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
  Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe summer, bears
        lightly along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
  Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
  Not these—O none of these, more than the flames of me, consuming,
        burning for his love whom I love!
  O none, more than I, hurrying in and out:
 —Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the
        same;
  O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high, rain-emitting clouds,
        are borne through the open air,
  Any more than my Soul is borne through the open air,
  Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for you.         10

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