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Part 1 Section 1 I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath. The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is asked her, answers `Death.' For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life - O father! O God! was it well?- There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had failed, And ever he muttered and maddened, and ever wanned with despair, And out he walked when the wind like a broken worlding wailed, And the flying gold of the ruined woodlands drove through the air. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirred By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trailed, by a whispered fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains . . .
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