6


THOU HAST done well, my lover, thou hast done well to send me thy fin of pain.

For my incense never yields its perfume till it burns, and my lamp is blind till it is lighted.

When my mind is numb its torpor must be stricken by thy love' lightning; and the very darkness that blots my world burns like a torch when set afire by thy thunder.

 

 

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