  So I sang; but the Muse, Shaking her head, took the harp— Stern interrupted my strain, Angrily smote on the chords. April showers Rush o'er the Yorkshire moors. Loom the blurr'd hills; the rain Lashes the newly-made grave. Unquiet souls! —In the dark fermentation of earth, In the never idle workshop of nature, In the eternal movement, Ye shall find yourselves again! |
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