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OTHER VERSE |
135 |
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It grinds the face of those who do not wear Protecting Fortune's mask, impierceable.
I've sat within the shade of orange groves, And heard in low and sweet and witching strains, Some far-off music, as of siren songs, Weird-like, from wooded shores of placid lakes, Soft o'er the listening waters steal along.
I've borne the cold of arctic heights, and dragged, Half famished, o'er the sands of desert plains, And strove in solitude among the wilds And gloom of desolation lost.
I've stood upon a lonely isle, far out Amid the sea, and yearning, hopeful, watched The waste to catch a sight of saving sail, And day by day saw, but with growing dread, The crawling canyons of the deep upheave.
But in it all I've had a holy, sweet, And blessed memory to 'bide with me— My strong young manhood's first and cherished love.
And here's a great and faithful tear; one lone, True, tender friend, of bright and bygone years That, some decades ago, held in their arms The long-lost love that I beheld tonight, |
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