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Get thee hence, nor come again,
Mix not memory with doubt,
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
Pass and cease to move about!
"T is the blot upon the brain
That will show itself without.

Then I rise, the eave-drops fall, And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.

Thro' the hubbub of the market
I steal, a wasted frame;

It crosses here, it crosses there,
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud,

The shadow still the same;

And on my heavy eyelids
My anguish hangs like shame.

Alas for her that met me,

That heard me softly call,
Came glimmering thro' the laurels
At the quiet evenfall,
In the garden by the turrets
Of the old manorial hall!

Would the happy spirit descend
From the realms of light and song,
In the chamber or the street,
As she looks among the blest,
Should I fear to greet my friend
Or to say Forgive the wrong,'
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
To the regions of thy rest"?


But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and fleets
And will not let me be;

And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me.

Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.


O, WELL for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,

Who seems a promontory of rock,

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