| I BRING you with reverent hands | |
| The books of my numberless dreams; | |
| White woman that passion has worn | |
| As the tide wears the dove-gray sands, | |
| And with heart more old than the horn | |
| That is brimmed from the pale fire of time: | |
| White woman with numberless dreams | |
| I bring you my passionate rhyme. |
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