THE POET
In pallid streams his life oozed out—
In the wild watching of his eyes
Sweet visions ever seemed to rout
A host of fevered phantasies—
Or struggle 'neath a vague surprise.
In the wild watching of his eyes
Sweet visions ever seemed to rout
A host of fevered phantasies—
Or struggle 'neath a vague surprise.
Upon his lips a silence lay
Which strove to speak and ever strove
To tear some blinding veil away—
A slavish fetter to remove,
Or some yet hidden force to prove.
Which strove to speak and ever strove
To tear some blinding veil away—
A slavish fetter to remove,
Or some yet hidden force to prove.
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