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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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Up to my ear my soul doth run--

Her other door is dark;

There she can see without the sun,

And there she sits to mark.

hear the dull unheeding wind Mumble o'er heath and wold;

My fancy leaves my brain behind,

And floats into the cold.

Like a forgotten face that lies

One of the speechless crowd,

The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,

White-folded in her shroud.

O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,

Dead rivers, fireless thorps,

brood, the heart still throbbing warm In Nature's wintered corpse.

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