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 Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems ! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door ? Look up and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation ! there 's a voice within That weeps .
as thou must sing .
alone, aloof

Poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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