There could be times, within the years
That spread perspectively before
My weary eye, when ceaseless tears
Devour all of me, and more,
When silence lonely as the grave
Describes itself within my breast
And everything seems useless save
The hope for undetermined rest
Which will not come, no matter how
Assiduous I am to seek
The end of all. I will not now
Believe, however, in such bleak
Imaginations. I am sure
Despite it all, we will endure.
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