  The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught With all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved; He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ... Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved. The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilled With all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept; He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ... Then bent his face upon his hands and wept. |
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