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- THE bow of promise, this lost flaring star,
- Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She,
- The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy,
- Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar
- Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are
- A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea,
- Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity,
- Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar.
- Tools of the brain--the globe, the cube--no more
- She deals with; in her hand the compass stays;
- Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore
- Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays,
- Expect this secret to enlarge thy store;
- She moves through incommunicable ways.
- Edward Dowden
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