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There, in that sun-ark, lo, Waiteth he wistful; Summer comes smiling, lo, Rays smite the pile! Burden'd with eld-years, and Weary with slow time, Slow in his odour-nest Burneth the bird. Up from those ashes, then, Springeth a rare fruit; Deep in the rare fruit There coileth a worm. Weaving bliss-meshes Around and around it, Silent and blissful, the Worm worketh on.
There, in that sun-ark, lo, Waiteth he wistful; Summer comes smiling, lo, Rays smite the pile! Burden'd with eld-years, and Weary with slow time, Slow in his odour-nest Burneth the bird. Up from those ashes, then, Springeth a rare fruit; Deep in the rare fruit There coileth a worm. Weaving bliss-meshes Around and around it, Silent and blissful, the Worm worketh on.
In burden'd vessels now they travelled o're The furrow'd deep to seas unknown before: And any hidden part of land or sea, That gold afforded, was an enemy. Thus fate the seeds of civil fury rais'd, When great in wealth no common pleasure pleas'd. Delights more out of fashion by the town: Th' souldiers scarlet now from Spain must come; The purple of the sea contemn'd is grown.
And heap on my burden'd back; That I not one test may lack Of what strength in me remains!"
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