446 Percy Bysshe Shelley - The Early Years
The History of Literature
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Poisey and Poems
Her fair hands were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp. In their branching veins the eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. Soon the solemn mood of her pure mind kindled through all her frame a permeating fire. Wild numbers then she raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs subdued by its own pathos. Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night swallowed up the vision.
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