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CCLXIII

PERFECTION
Grunewald's Stuppach Madonna
Her eyes, the passing Fancy that they
are--miraculously glow
into Th'Darkness of the closing dream

melting afar--the pink
swan-song of the Evening Lark:

or with their Myth steal O
my heart, whose half-truth beats, anyway, but
in my own-fabled youth

--Still, there's a Beauty
(further than her living eyes
safeguarded in The Soul:

A perfect thought surviving
pass the fading lot of worldly things
to purest Paradise)

... whose charm,
whose utter Truth th'kissing lips
of Time cannot wear down

nor with speeches of un-
broken endurance (can) eclipse with
weariness this ever-vernal fact:

The infinite completeness
of life's blindest Least!

Her eyes, the deathless echo
of our imminent perhaps, yet toll

th'thieving, touching Thought
of outlasting ourselves

down th'imperishable reaches
of her rare, singular regard--

Although they perish, always, yet
they scan

the blindest infinite
of her Love's least, complete.

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