<h2>V</h2>
<p>I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,<br/>
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,<br/>
And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn<br/>
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see<br/>
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,<br/>
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn<br/>
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn<br/>
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,<br/>
It might be well perhaps. But if instead<br/>
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow<br/>
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,<br/>
O my Belovëd, will not shield thee so,<br/>
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred<br/>
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!</p>
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