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777

The Loneliness One dare not sound —

And would as soon surmise

As in its Grave go plumbing

To ascertain the size —

The Loneliness whose worst alarm

Is lest itself should see —

And perish from before itself

For just a scrutiny —

The chasm not to be surveyed —

But skirted in the Dark —

With Consciousness suspended —

And Being under Lock —

I fear me this — is Loneliness —

The Maker of the soul

Its Caverns and its Corridors

Illuminate — or seal —

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