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Mine eyes are heavy with watching, My tongue for speech doth thirst ; If only the veriest dog of a man Would break this void accurst ! The deer come grazing before me, As though a stone were I ; The hare with the scorn of a fear overthrown Goes lightly glancing by. The wood is busy with music, The birds in chorus sing ; The adders creep out, and the toads come about, As round a vanquished king. A vision haunts me, and haunts me, A dream of tender eyes I call her my saint, and I kneel at her shrine, But earthly thoughts will rise. 'Tis not Madonna, the Jewess, Who died so long ago ; But Mary, the living, that smiles from my wall, — The painter wrought it so.