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 She is too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon Such a man as I—'twere something to be level to her hate.

But for me—you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter,— How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone! I shall leave this house at dawn—I would to-night, if I were better— And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun.

When the sun has dyed the orient, I depart with no last gazes, No weak moanings—one word only, left in writing for her hands,— Out of reach of her derisions, and some unavailing praises. To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands.