For one month afterwards the eye stays true And sees the other's face held still and free A narrow vista, and the month runs out. Too young, this eye will claim the merit of A faithful sentry frozen at his post And not a movement seen; yet ranges over Far other tracts, its object lost, corrupt. Nor should I now swell to halloo the names Of feelings that no one need to remember, Nor caper with my posy of wilted avowals To clutter up your path I should wish clear. Perhaps it is not too late to crane the eye And find you, distant and small, but as you are; Otherwise I will keep you honestly blurred, Not a bland refraction of sweet mirrors.
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