Who have accomplished Death, Majestic to me beyond The majesties of Earth. The soul her “not at Home” Inscribes upon the flesh, And takes her fair aerial gait Beyond the hope of touch.
' ... From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.' The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.
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