The Travail of Passion

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     When the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
     When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
     Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
     Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
     The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
     We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
     That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
     Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.