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 Hath cast not wholly out of all men's ears And dulled to death with deep dense funeral chime Of their reiterate rhyme. And now of all songs uttering all her praise, All hers who had thy praise and did thee wrong, Abides one song yet of her lyric days, Thine only, this thy song.

O soul triune, woman and god and bird, Man, man at least has heard. All ages call thee conqueror, and thy cry The mightiest as the least beneath the sky Whose heart was ever set to song, or stirred With wind of mounting music blown more high Than wildest wing may fly, Hath heard or hears,—even Æschylus as I. But when thy name was woman, and thy word