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The Weaver By Herman Melville  |
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 For years within a mud-built roomFor Arva's shrine he weaves the shawl,Lone wight, and at a lonely loom,His busy shadow on the wall. The face is pinched, the form is bent,No pastime knows he nor the wine,Recluse he lives and abstinentWho weaves for Arva's shrine. | |||||||||||||
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