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IN VAIN. |
I cannot live with you, |
It would be life, |
And life is over there |
Behind the shelf |
The sexton keeps the key to, |
Putting up |
Our life, his porcelain, |
Like a cup |
Discarded of the housewife, |
Quaint or broken; |
A newer Sevres pleases, |
Old ones crack. |
I could not die with you, |
For one must wait |
To shut the other's gaze down, -- |
You could not. |
And I, could I stand by |
And see you freeze, |
Without my right of frost, |
Death's privilege? |
Nor could I rise with you, |
Because your face |
Would put out Jesus', |
That new grace |
Glow plain and foreign |
On my homesick eye, |
Except that you, than he |
Shone closer by. |
They'd judge us -- how? |
For you served Heaven, you know, |
Or sought to; |
I could not, |
Because you saturated sight, |
And I had no more eyes |
For sordid excellence |
As Paradise. |
And were you lost, I would be, |
Though my name |
Rang loudest |
On the heavenly fame. |
And were you saved, |
And I condemned to be |
Where you were not, |
That self were hell to me. |
So we must keep apart, |
You there, I here, |
With just the door ajar |
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