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"There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines When Winter lifts his voice; there is a noise Among immortals when a god gives sign With hushing finger, how he means to load His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought, With thunder, and with music, and with pomp." Such are the majestic syllables which preface the speech of Saturn in Hyperion.
Seven times a week Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun, Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek Of voices utterless which rave and run Through all the star-penumbra, craving light And tidings of the dawn from East and West.
Take the Monk's Appeal to his "Mother, Italy," for its eloquence: "By thine eternal youth, And coeternal utterless dishonor Past, present, future, life and death, all oaths Which may bind earth and heaven, mother, I swear it We know we have dishonored thee. We know All thou canst tell the angels.
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