| I lift my heavy heart up solemnly
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| As once Elektra her sepulchral urn
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| And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
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| The ashes at thy feet, behold and see
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| What a great heap of grief lay hid in me And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
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| Through the ashen greyness, if thy foot in scorn
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| Could tread them out to darkness utterly
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| It might be well perhaps, but if instead
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| Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
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| The grey dust up … those laurels on thine head
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| O my beloved, will not shield thee so That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
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| The hair beneath, stand further off then! |
| Go! |