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Imagine you a tranquil deep, with nary cloud nor gale
All atmosphere is inward drawn, so seldom to exhale
But there! A tiny heresy! A swell upon the brine!
Wherefore stirs this turbulence, and from what tortured clime?
•••
Look on these ever-barren waves — a hollow spear arriv’d
And lo, some ragged band therein doth labor it to glide
‘Faster now,’ sayeth one, ‘and steady on the break!’
‘We’ve not an extra hour left to linger in our wake!’
•••
These four are chas’d by fury, and fury must they chase
For ’round their heads a heav’nly noise doth heavily embrace
The song, the chord, the tone! It runs them nightly through,
And only in the playing doth it vanish into blue.
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Submitted by: Lord Byron