Chapter XIV

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My hopes, e'en my hopes, wither; a dark cloud
Has passed between them and the glorious sun,
Clothing the breathing being in a shroud--
The pall is o'er them and their race is run:
Their epitaph is written in my heart--
The all of mem'ry that can ne'er depart--
Yes, it is here! the truth of every dream,
The ever-present thought, in every varying theme.