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Is chilled, crushed, and constrained by the cold world, Outraged and undervalued; the fine throbs Of feeling turn to ministers of grief; All is so false around, affection's self Becomes suspected. But of all drear lots That love must draw from the dark urn of fate, There is one deepest misery—when two hearts, Born for each other, yet must beat apart. Aye, this is misery, to check, conceal That which should be our happiness and glory; To love, to be beloved again, and know A gulf between us:—aye, 'tis misery! This agony of passion, this wild faith, Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept Inviolate:—to feel that all life's hope,