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The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark ; The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,
And sent no answer back again.