The Travail of Passion
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When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide； When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay； Our hearts endure the scourge， the plaited thorns， the way Crowded with bitter faces， the wounds in palm and side， The vinegar-heavy sponge， the flowers by Kedron stream； We will bend down and loosen our hair over you， That it may drop faint perfume， and be heavy with dew， Lilies of death-pale hope， roses of passionate dream. |
