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28 There is never a note to work his will, And expression is only a thing of skill ; With vision blinded, and utterance weak. He may pipe his soul away, And never a one of the crowd will hear The thing that he meant to say. Playing blindly, blindly, blindly, I have visions none can see ; Surely Fate hath used me kindly, Sights of sadness reach not me. What though the angel music Doth soar above my head ? I meekly follow after, With firm and joyful tread. It is a good, not evil thing, To know some songs one cannot sing. There shone a smiling seraph Upon the dusty way; He shook his plumy wings and said " There comes no failure to the dead, Ye rise with me one day."