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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

The End

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain
 I hear your words in mournful cadence toll
 Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
Of sundering darkness.  Unrelenting, fain
To batter down resistance, fall again
 Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,
 The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
 Where shall I look for comfort?  Not to you.
  Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
 Now in the haunted twilight I must do
  Your will.  I grasp the cup which over-runs,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.