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For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause for breathe, And love itself have rest
But words are things; and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm I thank thee, night for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.
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