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Poem by Thomas Hood
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Far above the hollow Tempest, and its moan, Singeth bright Apollo In his golden zone,-- Cloud doth never shade him, Nor a storm invade him, On his joyous throne. So when I behold me In an orb as bright, How thy soul doth fold me In its throne of light! Sorrow never paineth, Nor a care attaineth To that blessed height.
Thomas Hood's other poems:
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