Dead Fires
If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,
— Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.
Better the wound forever seeking balm
— Than this gray calm!
Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,
— The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,
Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath
— Than passion's death!
— Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.
Better the wound forever seeking balm
— Than this gray calm!
Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,
— The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,
Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath
— Than passion's death!
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