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O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
 * Parting, like Death’s cold river, souls that love?

Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
 * By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
 * Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:

And these wild words of fury but proclaim
 * A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!

But all is lost: that mighty mind o’erthrown,
 * Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!

“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,
 * “Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”