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Only the pang of death can tell That of the words—we meet no more.

He moved not, spoke not, but he grew More death-like in his pallid hue: He hid his face, he could not bear To think of that young heart's despair. Whate'er his lot, her's must not be The same in mutual misery. No, he would seek and bear her home, And watch o'er every hour to come. In look or word, she should not guess His depths of silent wretchedness. Let her be happy—he would make His heart the ruin for her sake. At length he slept—the heavy sleep