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41
XIII. SOLITUDE.
(TO G. J. G.)
There is a sea, upon whose troublous tideTen thousand thousand storm-tost galleys ride,
Diverse their course, albeit the promised bourne
Whereto the unvarying compass points, be one;
Diverse their course,—and some there are who mourn
Those mateless wanderings 'neath the inclement sun,
Or where the stars their wintry vigils keep
O'er the dark waters of the uncheery deep.
What if two barks that drifted lonelily
By some strange influence meet on that far sea?
Such the sweet spell o'er kindred spirits thrown,
The spell, whose wiles too deep for language lie,
Striking responsive chords in hearts that own
The throbbing pulse of mutual sympathy.
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