  I know not whose the words, Nor the maker of their music; In my sorrow-laden heart The aroma of its pathetic art Like the soothing breath of dream. Joy borrows its charm from sorrow; Sorrow feverish with the color of joy; An opaque crystal, a stone on life's string Made of music that doth ring As the stars on the lyre of night. A pain it is, made perfect; A call made clear by the voice of peace; A silver stream of song Darkened, yet floweth on and on Between black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home. |
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