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 Whose helpless nostrils drink the bitter sea; What thing can be So stout, what so redoubtable, in Death What fury, wlat considorable rage, if only she, Upon whose iey breast, Unquestioned, uncaressed, One time I lay, And whom always I lack, Even to this day, Being by no means from that frigid bosom weaned away, If only she therewith be given me back?" I sought her down that dolorous labyrinth, Wherein no shaft of sunlight ever fell, And in among the bloodless everywhere