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To a Dead Poet.I knew not if to laugh or weep;They sat and talked of you -'Twas here he sat; 'twas this he said!'Twas that he used to do.Here is the book wherein he read,The room wherein he dwelt;And he (they said) was such a man,Such things he thought and felt.I sat and sat, I did not stir;They talked and talked away.I was as mute as any stone,T had no word to say.They talked and talked; like to a stoneMy heart grew in my breast -I, who had never seen your facePerhaps I knew you best.
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