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WHAT MATTERS IT?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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76

WHAT MATTERS IT?

What matters it if I throughout the day
Be plagued by common faces, dreary things?
At nightfall lo! the folding of thy wings;
At eventide thy footstep on the way.
The holy dusk thine holier advent brings,
Gertrude, my spirit-queen whom I obey:
Then of itself my harp awakes and sings,
And forth the golden sweet dream-fancies stray.
O sacred lady, past all passion mine,
Yea, past all earthly yearning, all desire,
Hear thou the aspiration of my lyre:
Disdain not this rose-wreath that I would twine
Softly for thee; oh twist it in thine hair,
Making rich clustered blossoms yet more fair.