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122 Of joys that bloom decayed, Fall cool on my heart, O rain, Till you soften this bitter pain, This ice that doth it enchain — Oh, let it once hope again, Or fade.

Ye who in the crowd pass by, Not giving a glance or a sigh, Not heeding my lonely cry. Oh, pause, and say, ere you go, Is there love in that world you know? You have caused me all my woe. Gray eyes, gray eyes, ah! so Pass by.