 | The single hound : poems of a lifetime |  |
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[CXXXIX. To pile like Thunder to its close]
To pile like Thunder to its close,Then crumble grand away,
While everything created hid—
This would be Poetry:
Or Love,—the two coeval came—
We both and neither prove,
Experience either, and consume—
For none see God and live.
| The single hound : poems of a lifetime | |