Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
A chasm of suffocating, endless silence: opoponax, frankincense, juniper, wormwood, and crypt moss.
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