Three Romances — II

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Here are the weaving branches
Of that resplendent eye,
The rivers’ wandering trenches
Left when the rivers dry.

And through the blank of summer
Their parching channels spread;
The last pools steam and shimmer;
The reeds are brown and dead.

For you are both the season
That brimmed their banks with rain
And the blind, wasting passion
That dries them out again.

The eye, whose large horizons
Were quick with liquid sight,
Now circles in your prison’s
Impenetrable light.

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