I lift my    up solemnly,

        As ora her sepulchral urn,

        And, looking in turn

        t t. Behold and see

        a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

        And he red wild sparkles dimly burn

        t in s

        Could tread t to darkness utterly,

        It mig if instead

        t beside me for to blow

        t up, . . . thine head,

        O my Beloved,    shee so,

        t none of all the fires shall scord shred

        tand farthen ! go.
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