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And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside forever;—it may be a sound— A tone of music—summer’s breath, or spring— A flower—a leaf—the ocean—which may wound— Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. Childe Harold.

power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery?—Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?