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Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner
Sad memory wakes anew at morning's touch And, as some muscles move without our will, She seizes, with involuntary clutch, The sorrow that we hate, our bosom ill; But we are formed with such fine wisdom, such A Providence our moral need supplies, That we can seldom overrate our sighs Nor prize our organs of regret too much; Then welcome still these ever-new returns Of anguish! Who escapes or can escape The burthen, while the great world sins and mourns? Grief comes to all, whatever be her shape To each, but we are framed with pain to cope; And, when we bow, we help our climbing hope.
Charles Tennyson Turner
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