As the day sinks down, let not a melancholy fit on me fall
Like a sudden culmination from heaven under a weeping gloom of cloud,
Ban the rough winds that foster and beat the droop-headed flowers in the meadow all,
Let me scot again the joy at green hill in an April shroud;
Then I can glut my burdening sorrow of past days on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salty ivory white endless sand-wave,
Or on the wealth and abundance of globed thickening buds
Let me still when my love some rich new anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand on mine, and let her rant and rave,
And I can feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes of love and sage
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