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FERISHTAH'S FANCIES.
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The while he champs my gift, a thistle-bunch,How much he loves the largess: of his loveI only tolerate so much as tellsBy wrinkling nose and inarticulate grunt,The meal, that heartens him to do my work,Tickles his palate as I meant it should."
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no Soul like mineLap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room!Soul,—travel-worn, toil-weary,—would confineAlong with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom,Captures from soarings high and divings deep.Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep?Take Sense, too—let me love entire and whole—Not with my Soul!
Not with my Soul, Love!—bid no Soul like mineLap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room!Soul,—travel-worn, toil-weary,—would confineAlong with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom,Captures from soarings high and divings deep.Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep?Take Sense, too—let me love entire and whole—Not with my Soul!