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 These things I whisper.
 * For I see—in mind—

Thy caged cheek whiten
 * At the wail of wind,

That thin breast wasting; unto
 * Woe resigned.

Take comfort, listen!
 * Once we twain were free;

There was a Country—
 * Lost the memory . ..

Lay thy cold brow on hand,
 * And dream with me.

Awaits me torture,
 * I have smelt their rack;

From spectral groaning wheel
 * Have turned me back;

Thumbscrew and boot, and then—
 * The yawning sack.

Lean closer, then;
 * Lay palm on stony wall.

Let but thy ghost beneath
 * Thine eyelids call:

'Courage, my brother,' Nought
 * Can then appal.