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III.

Oh! let not words, the callous shell of Thought,
Intrude betwixt thy silent soul and mine;—
Try not the choicest ever Poet wrought,
They all are discord in our life divine.
Smile not thine unbelief. But hear and say
All that Thou will'st, and then upon my breast
Thy gracious head in silent passion lay
One little hour, and tell me which is best.
Now let us live our love; in after-hours
Words shall fit handmaids to sweet Memory be,
But let them not disturb these holier bowers,
The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy.