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Ages ago, from the lips of a sad glad poet Whose soul was a wild dove lost in the whirling snow, The soft keen plaint of his pain took voice to show it Ages ago.

So clear, so deep, the divine drear accents flow, No soul that listens may choose but thrill to know it, Pierced and wrung by the passionate music's throe.

For us there murmurs a nearer voice below it, Known once of ears that never again shall know, Now mute as the mouth which felt death's wave o'erflow it Ages ago.