<h2>EMILY BRONTË.</h2>
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<div class="verse">What sacramental hurt that brings</div>
<div class="verse">The terror of the truth of things,</div>
<div class="verse">Had changed thee? Secret be it yet.</div>
<div class="verse">’Twas thine, upon a headland set,</div>
<div class="verse">To view no isles of man’s delight</div>
<div class="verse">With lyric foam in rainbow flight,</div>
<div class="verse">But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar,</div>
<div class="verse">Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.</div>
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