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Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Sonnet XVII: My Poet, Thou Canst TouchElizabeth Barrett Browning - Sonnet XVII: My Poet, Thou Canst Touch
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My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes God set between his After and Before, And strike up and strike off the general roar Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats In a serene air purely. Antidotes Of medicated music, answering for Mankind`s forlornest uses, thou canst pour From thence into their ears. God`s will devotes Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.
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