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ATTHIS, my darling, thou did'st stray
A few feet to the rushy bed,
When a great fear and passion shook
My heart lest haply thou wert dead ;
It grew so still about the brook,
As if a soul were drawn away.
Anon thy clear eyes, silver-blue,
Shone through the tamarisk-branches fine ;
To pluck me iris thou had'st sprung
Through galingale and celandine ;
Away, away, the flowers I flung
And thee down to my breast I drew.
My darling ! Nay, our very breath
Nor light nor darkness shall divide ;
Queen Dawn shall find us on one bed,
Nor must thou flutter from my side
An instant, lest I feel the dread,
Atthis, the immanence of death.