| My heart is like a withered rose, |
| On which the envious worm has fed; |
| And healthful bloom no more it knows: |
| All but the rankling thorns are dead. |
| 5 My heart is like a broken lyre |
| Which some rude hand has snapped in twain, |
| And on its chords the notes expire, |
| That music ne'er can wake again. |
| My heart is like a lonely tomb, |
| 10 Where lies interr'd the loved -- the dead -- |
| Nought breaks upon its chilling gloom, |
| And hope no more her light can shed. |
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