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When this mysterious self shall leave behind
The subtle painted clay that keeps it blind,
The ransomed essence wantons in the beam
That seeks in vain the dark embodied mind.
Yet if the soul should with the body die,
A flame that flickers when the oil runs dry,
Still but the heart that drives the strange machine—
And what remains of this you once called "I"?
The soul is but the senses catching fire,
Marvellous music of the body's lyre,—
The angel senses are the silver strings
Stirred by the breath of some unknown desire.
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