<h2>XXVII</h2>
<p>My own Belovëd, who hast lifted me<br/>
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,<br/>
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown<br/>
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully<br/>
Shines out again, as all the angels see,<br/>
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,<br/>
Who camest to me when the world was gone,<br/>
And I who looked for only God, found thee!<br/>
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.<br/>
As one who stands in dewless asphodel,<br/>
Looks backward on the tedious time he had<br/>
In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,<br/>
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,<br/>
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.</p>
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