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It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness
I'm so accustomed to my Fate
Perhaps the Other—Peace

Would interrupt the Dark
And crowd the little Room
Too scant—by Cubits—to contain
The Sacrament—of Him

I am not used to Hope
It might intrude upon
Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place
Ordained to Suffering

It might be easier
To fail—with Land in Sight
Than gain—My Blue Peninsula
To perish—of Delight