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Strange, that the mind, when fraught With a passion so intense One would think that it well Might drown all life in the eye,— That it should, by being so overwrought, Suddenly strike on a sharper sense For a shell, or a flower, little things Which else would have been past by! And now I remember, I, When he lay dying there, I noticed one of his many rings (For he had many, poor worm) and thought It is his mother's hair.

Who knows if he be dead? Whether I need have fled? Am I guilty of blood?