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A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - July

Rating: 2.7

1.
ALAS, my tent! see through it a whirlwind sweep!
Moaning, poor Fancy's doves are swept away.
I sit alone, a sorrow half asleep,
My consciousness the blackness all astir.
No pilgrim I, a homeless wanderer-
For how canst Thou be in the darkness deep,
Who dwellest only in the living day?

2.

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