Half the ills we heard within our hearts are ills because we hoard them.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
O human beauty, what a dream art thou, that we should cast our life and hopes away on thee!
Death is the tyrant of the imagination.
Within the midnight of her hair, Half-hidden in its deepest deeps.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.
I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more.
All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.
Pity speaks to grief More sweetly than a band of instruments.
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