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Canto XII

Lo, as a dove when up she springs    To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe,    Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go; I cannot stay;    I leave this mortal ark behind,    A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,    And reach the glow of southern skies,    And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying; "Comes he thus, my friend?    Is this the end of all my care?"    And circle moaning in the air: "Is this the end? Is this the end?"

And forward dart again, and play    About the prow, and back return    To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto XII

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