See the hem of evening,
--steadily and fast,
One can hope that the ripples of the hardened land echo
Or that waves interrupt an otherwise safe
If not we have surely promised in act
Something that in writing we must have been presumptuous to say
We could justify.
(You know, we don't build Love for a sprightly air,
Nor even for how it will look in seventy years--though we hope.
Based on how the moment dictates, and we're only that strong.)
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