Now more than ever divided, Loving and yet not loving, A worshiper of your gentleness, Demanding my own aloofness; Now more than ever divided, Two of myself, two in you; Reared as a tower of granite Bright on the last blue hill, Crumbled and rooted with wild-flowers Under the touch of your hand, Torn as a leaf from a woodvine Colorfully tossed to the wind, Caught with dry tendrils of yearning Close to an ancient wall.
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