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And the honeysuckle's flower Crimson, as a sunset hour; But too soon the blooms are past,— When did ever beauty last? And there came a dreary shade, Of the yew and cypress made, Moaning in the sullen breeze; And at length not even these, But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd, Relics of a ruin'd world. Wide, more wide, the river grew, Blacker changed its dreary hue, Till, oppress'd, the wearied eye Only gazed on sea and sky— Sea of death, and sky of night, Where a storm had been like light.