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AFTER-WORD
Is it this, Belovèd, this the secret?— Life, the earth life, thee and me compelling, Life and only life?—Where flowers have withered, Lavished perfume on the impartial breezes, Fed the bee and crowned the bush with beauty, Then, the summer spent; the petals perish, Then, the spring returned, the sap returning, Novel buds that ripen to perfection,— Flowers may fade but never so the impulse,Shift the scenes the play goes on forever?— Is it this, Belovèd, this the secret?
Oh, consider!—Sure that life endureth— Do I kiss thy lips, thine adolescent Breast of marble, do my fingers even