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1876–1944

XXII

Helen Hay Whitney

Take all of me, pour out my life as wine, To dye your soul's sweet shallows. Violent sin Blazed me a path, and I have walked therein, Strong, unashamed. Your timorous hands need mine,

As the white stars their sky, your lips’ pale line Shall blush to roses where my lips have been. I ask no more. I do not hope to win — Only to add myself to your design.

Take all of me. I know your little lies, Your light dishonor, gentle treacheries. I know, I lie in torment at your feet, Shadow to all your sun. Take me and go,

Use my adoring to your honor, sweet, Strength for your weakness — it is better so.

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XXII · Helen Hay Whitney · Poetry Cove