A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE
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OUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them lessHere, far away, than when I tarried near;I even smile old smiles—with listlessness—Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere. A thought too strange to house within my brainHaunting its outer precincts I discern:—_That I will not show zeal again to learn__Your griefs_, _and sharing them_, _renew my pain_ . . . It goes, like murky bird or buccaneerThat shapes its lawless figure on the main,And each new impulse tends to make outfleeThe unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge beThan that, though banned, such instinct was in me! 1866.
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