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To F—— By Edgar Allan Poe  |
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 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 storms — but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o’re that one bright island smile. | |||||||||||||
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