SHE opened her moist crimson lips to sing; And from her throat that is so white and full The notes leaped like a fountain. A smooth lull Was o'er my heart: as when—a viol—string Having been broken—the first musical ring Once over, all the rest is but a dull Crude dissonance, howe'er thou twist and pull The sundered fragments. A most weary thing It is within the perished heart to seek Pain, and not find it, but a clinging pall Like sleep upon the mind. The mere set plan Of life then comes, and grief that is not weak Because it has no tears. Life's all—in—all Was certainly at end when this began.
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