Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 57

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LVII AWAKE
The wailing wind doth not enough despair; The Sea, for all her sobbing, hath the Moon,I cannot find my heart's cry anywhere,   Fain to complain alone.
The whistle of the train that, like a dart, Pierces the darkness as it hurries by,Hath not enough of sadness, and my heart   Is stifled for a cry.
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