III
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O ye, all ye that walk in Willow-wood,That walk with hollow faces burning white;What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood,What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night,Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooedYour last hope lost, who so in vain inviteYour lips to that their unforgotten food,Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light! Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood,With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red:Alas! if ever such a pillow couldSteep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead,--Better all life forget her than this thing,That Willowwood should hold her wandering!'
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