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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 69 pages of information about The Unknown Eros.
The fardel coarse of customary life’s
Exceeding injucundity. 
Leave me awhile, that I may shew thee clear
How Goddess-like thy love has lifted me;
How, seeming lone upon the gaunt, lone shore,
I’ll trust thee near,
When thou’rt, to knowledge of my heart, no more
Than a dream’s heed
Of lost joy track’d in scent of the sea-weed! 
Leave me to pluck the incomparable flower
Of frailty lion-like fighting in thy name and power;
To make thee laugh, in thy safe heaven, to see
With what grip fell
I’ll cling to hope when life draws hard to hell,
Yea, cleave to thee when me thou seem’st to slay,
Haply, at close of some most cruel day,
To find myself in thy reveal’d arms clasp’d,
Just when I say,
My feet have slipp’d at last! 
But, lo, while thus I store toil’s slow increase,
To be my dower, in patience and in peace,
Thou com’st, like bolt from blue, invisibly,
With premonition none nor any sign,
And, at a gasp, no choice nor fault of mine,
Possess’d I am with thee
Ev’n as a sponge is by a surge of the sea!’
   ’Thus irresistibly by Love embraced
Is she who boasts her more than mortal chaste!’
   ’Find’st thou me worthy, then, by day and night,
But of this fond indignity, delight?’
   ’Little, bold Femininity,
That darest blame Heaven, what would’st thou have or be?’
   ’Shall I, the gnat which dances in thy ray,
Dare to be reverent?  Therefore dare I say,
I cannot guess the good that I desire;
But this I know, I spurn the gifts which Hell
Can mock till which is which ’tis hard to tell. 
I love thee, God; yea, and ’twas such assault
As this which made me thine; if that be fault;
But I, thy Mistress, merit should thine ire
If aught so little, transitory and low
As this which made me thine
Should hold me so.’ 
   ‘Little to thee, my Psyche, is this, but much to me!’
   ‘Ah, if, my God, that be!’
   ’Yea, Palate fine,
That claim’st for thy proud cup the pearl of price,
And scorn’st the wine,
Accept the sweet, and say ’tis sacrifice! 
Sleep, Centre to the tempest of my love,
And dream thereof,
And keep the smile which sleeps within thy face
Like sunny eve in some forgotten place!’

XV.  PAIN.

O, Pain, Love’s mystery,
Close next of kin
To joy and heart’s delight,
Low Pleasure’s opposite,
Choice food of sanctity
And medicine of sin,
Angel, whom even they that will pursue
Pleasure with hell’s whole gust
Find that they must
Perversely woo,
My lips, thy live coal touching, speak thee true. 
Thou sear’st my flesh, O Pain,
But brand’st for arduous peace my languid brain,
And bright’nest my dull view,
Till I, for blessing, blessing give again,
And my roused spirit is
Another fire of bliss,
Wherein I learn
Feelingly how the pangful, purging fire

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