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by Edgar Allan Poe

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
    That crowd around my earthly path–
  (Drear path, alas! where grows
  Not even one lonely rose)–
    My soul at least a solace hath
  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
  An Eden of bland repose.

  And thus thy memory is to me
    Like some enchanted far-off isle
  In some tumultuous sea–
  Some ocean throbbing far and free
    With storm–but where meanwhile
  Serenest skies continually
    Just o’er that one bright inland smile.

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