Long hours trail in their purple and long years are lost in just this moment while our souls are near, our mouths separate.
O beautiful white land, olives and wild anemone and violet mingled among the shale, and purple wings of little winter-butterflies say, here Psyche, the soul, lies.
O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate, you can not thwart the promptings of my soul.
Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
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