Pretty sweetness. I know only the absence, my failing or his censure?
Either, my worth is nil.
From that moment no song in my soul, no smooth singing of hours.
No path for grief bound hard to let fly a cry, to cover miles
Of cold ground
Under flint spark stars over frozen marsh, my scream rises.
May it reach every reed, every tree and ear by windows closed to cold,
To all the broad, dark skies.
Hark not to song
Hark to my voice hoarse
Hark to sorrow
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