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Because I may not find thee, though I seek
West of the setting sun, east of the morn,
And trudge my weary pilgrimage forlorn
From darkling valley-road to lonely peak,
I send my dream--if so it be the flesh,
To spite my haunted journey, hold thee still;
If so thou standest on a dawn-red hill,
Haloed in wonder by thy tresses' mesh;
If so thou waitest by the cloud-run sea,
With gypsy ripples lapping at thy feet,
And echoes of my song may drift to thee,
And thou, perchance, may find my singing sweet--
I send thee all my brain and soul and art,
To stroke one chord responsive in thy heart!