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Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams
or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest,
wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool

Delight men's eyes
when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?