I May Not Weep, Not Weep, And He Is Dead. A Weary, Weary Weight Of
Tears Unshed Through The Long Day In My Sad Heart I Bear; The
Horrid Sun With All Unpitying Glare Shines Down Into The Dreary
Weaving-room, Where Clangs The Ceaseless Clatter Of The Loom, And
Ceaselessly Deft Maiden-fingers Weave.
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