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And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day, Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire, Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher; My thoughts on courtier-wings might make their way Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire. For I, to the proprieties reconciled. Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."
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