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 The sorrow with the woman born,

What forged her cruel chain of moods,

What set her feet in solitudes,

And held the love within her mute,

What mingled madness in the blood,

A life-long discord and annoy,

Water of tears with oil of joy,

And hid within the folded bud

Perversities of flower and fruit.

It is not ours to separate

The tangled skein of will and fate,

To show what metes and bounds should stand

Upon the soul's debatable land,

And between choice and Providence

Divide the circle of events;

But He who knows our frame is just,

Merciful, and compassionate,

And full of sweet assurances