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14.

NOT heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe
summer, bears lightly along white down-balls of
myriads of seeds, wafted, sailing gracefully, to
drop where they may,
Not these—O none of these, more than the flames
of me, consuming, burning for his love whom I
love!
O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never
give up? O I the same;
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
rain-emitting clouds, are borne through the open
air,
Any more than my Soul is borne through the open
air,
Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for
you.

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