It seems a cold, dark shaft

where love would bid me go—

deep beneath the hills.

The memories, sand-like, blow—

a heart-blinding draft.

 

I’ve walked the caves before—

walked them with a thief

until the stars were gone;

I know the haunting grief—

and I cannot anymore.

 

But I forget that love,

with its lamp-like, golden glow,

can make a warmer place

of any dark below

than all the stars above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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