
Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet,
Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy:
And I—my harp would prelude woe— I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXXVIII
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