XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem a cuckoo-song, as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubts pain
Cry, Speak once more--thou lovest ! Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ?
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