By George Sterling

Save of the heart there is no loneliness,
    And thou hast made mine own one ache for thee—
    A subtle pain, a bliss exalting me
Till memory is made thy wild caress.
Heaven is no more, and earth can be no less,
    Nor any dream of either cease to be
    Thy lure, thy meaning and thy mystery.
With joys that rack, and agonies that bless.

Ere twilight strike the golden fields to grey,
I murmur "Craig! Beloved!" to the day,
    Till all the world is music to my heart.
        Yea! till from soundless peaks of western flame
    I seem to hear, O goddess that thou art!
        The dying lips of Sunset breathe thy name.


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