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A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain,
THE GRAVE OF KEATS
RID of the world's injustice, and his pain,
(IMPRESSIONS DU THEATRE)
HOW vain and dull this common world must seem
Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
THE SOUL STITHY
MY soul, asleep between its body-throes,
And then I knew those sparks were souls of men,
And watched them driven like stars before the wind.
A myriad died and left no trace to tell;
An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the fen;
Now one would leave a trail of fire behind:
And still the stithy hammers rose and fell.