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So Summer, with her slow, reluctant feet,
Went by, and lingering smiled, as loth to part,
While fond delusions warmed my lonesome heart:—
Though lives were severed, wingèd dreams could meet;
So met we, dear, as bodiless spirits greet—
Met, and were blind, foreseeing not the smart
Of hopes that hope not, and of tears that start
From eyes that say what lips may not repeat.
One brief day here, then gone beyond the sun—
How short the way, how soon the goal is won—
So less or more of love why need we measure?
But Fate avenges pleasant things begun,
And Retribution spares not any one,
And no Gods pity those who steal their treasure.

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