Rolling downward, through the midnight,
Comes a glorious burst of heav-nly song;
-Tis a chorus full of sweetness-
And the singers are an angel throng. ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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