The lover of child Marjory had one white hour of life brim full. Now the old nurse, the rocking sea, Hath him to lull. The daughter of child Marjory hath in her veins, to beat and run, the glad indomitable sea, the strong white sun.
I loved thee, Atthis, in the long ago, when the great oleanders were in flower in the broad herded meadows full of sun. And we would often at the fall of dusk wander together by the silver stream, when the soft grass-heads were all wet with dew, and purple-misted in the fading light. And joy I knew and sorrow at thy voice, and the superb magnificence of love. The loneliness that saddens solitude, and the sweet speech that makes it durable. The bitter longing and the keen desire, the sweet companionship through quiet days in the slow ample beauty of the world, and the unutterable glad release within the temple of the holy night. O Atthis, how I loved thee long ago, in that fair perished summer by the sea!
If death be good, why do the gods not die? If life be ill, why do the gods still live? If love be naught, why do the gods still love? If love be all, what should men do but love?
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