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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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