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Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief; —
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins
And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!
"Inheritor of more than earth can give, Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep!
And are the uncomplaining things they see Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love; Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph wer Peace!"
This was the only moan she ever made.
Cancelled Passage of
HERE is a voice, not understo
Sent from these desert-caves.
is the roar
Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams call.
Plunging into the vale- it is the blast Descending on the pines the torre