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 SORROW, on wing through the world for ever,
Here and there for awhile would borrow
Rest, if rest might haply deliver
One thought lies close in her heart gnawn thorough With pain, a weed in a dried-up river, A rust-red share in an empty furrow.
Hearts that strain at her chain would sever The link where yesterday frets to-morrow: All things pass in the world, but never Sorrow.

Poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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