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And yet, though its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it-your ears are so dull ; So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in.
THE DYING SWAN.
The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere
An under-roof of doleful gray.
Which loudly did lament.
Ever the weary wind went on,
Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows.
One willow over the river wept,
and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
The warble was low, and full and clear ;
As when a mighty people rejoice
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd
Through the open gates of the city afar,