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The Loneliness One dare not sound
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny
The Horror not to be surveyed
But skirted in the Dark
With Consciousness suspended
And Being under Lock
I fear me this—is Loneliness
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal