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LOVE, REPROACHFUL
Then Love, reproachful, sighed: "Art thou become
Voiceless, who in my praise wast eloquent?
To wound my name, unto high heaven is sent
A vain lamenting,—the exordium
Of fruitless plaint and chiding wearisome,—
While they to whom my chiefest joys are lent,
To worship me in silence are content!"
Love, even so: whom thou dost bless are dumb.
Listen! That strain of ecstasy and pain!
Far-echoing from Thrace, it breathes again,
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