Normale Version: Expressionless
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The thoughts which in this aching bosom dwell,
And weight it with a sad, desponding weight, -
Like ship unbuoyant with her heavy freight,
Whose ploughing hull retards thr pressing swell

Of homeward-urging sail, - within their cell,
Nameless and wordless, struggle with their fate
And yield but one deep plain, - too late! too late!
Then falter into silence. It is well!

Ah, could our lips embody all the grace
And garnered beauty of the inmost soul,
Earth were no more a blank, impeding place,

But, loosed from bonds perpetual, hymns would roll.
Thou God! most good, in each our lips to bind; -
For what were earth, did all our woe expression find!