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Excerpt from The Victories of Love
To some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect! Only let not Thy method be To make that life, and call it me Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love's disintegrity? Answer me, No,' and I, with grace, Will life's brief desolation face My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Even with a patient cheer thereof.
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