.Harken! - the clouds muster?in dark -
So painfully easing.
Hush! - hearest ye the yew doting;
Its years of yore in a mire,
Each like a corpse within its grave;
Wrought for us a yearn of lief;
'Tis not a lore of bale nor loathe;
Harmony and ?hesia are its blisses;
Ne 'er ere .
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