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MORTA.
151
Morta, I hear—I follow thee; I hold thee by thy robe of snow: Yet go where thou canst never go,And see what thou canst never see.
A fleece of shining white unrolled; A wheel whose turning has no end; A joinèd thread thou canst not rend,And One the gleaming strand doth hold.
Softly the singing wheel revolves; Softly my heart sings evermore: While, learned in Life's seraphic lore,Death's threefold mystery it solves.
