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, gored by the rough world's wound,

Bleeding and dead full often have I lain;

A thousand times, I think, I have been slain,

And all my beauty strown upon the ground;

And I have heard above me then a sound

Of tears, and hid lament, immortal pain,

Of one for whom my worship was not vain,

Though she divinity hath ne'er unbound

To me nor to another; rose-like there

I felt strange touches on my limbs and head,

A shadow moulding o'er me in the air

Full of the dawning lights about the dead,

And kisses, smothered in a woman's hair,

On my cold face and lips in darkness shed.