A melancholy grimness fills my breast,
As though my heart has shrivelled up and died
And left behind a bleak, sepulchral chest
For he - forgotten in his time - who tried
To rise above the thread and triumph Fate,
But failing this, instead blew out his breath
In sighs and hissing spats of self-struck hate,
Then settled here in solitary death
Behind my ribs (so call them "coffin lid"),
And now that beating warmth no longer pairs
Itself with joy - though, long ago it did,
But Ah! that was so long ago, who cares
If such a thing finds final resting place?
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