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a web of many textures

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We speak of parting o'er the opening grave
Where weary nature finds a fitting rest,
The while, to anxious doubts and fears a slave,
Dire anguish clouds the sunshine of the breast;
We speak of parting when we bid farewell
To some tried spirit kindred with our own,
And 'gainst the fortune doth the heart rebel
Through whose obtrusion those we prize have flown;
But, O! how feebly does the word convey
The thought of that black severance of fate,
When those we 've loved have torn themselves away,
And merged their friendship 'neath the clouds of hate! —
That living death, from dull indifference born,
That knows, to follow it, no resurrection morn.