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I sing of strange songs and the wringing / Of hands in fatidical zeal, / Of great gloom-throated bells, ever ringing / With wild poems of bronze till they reel. / I sing of all terrors hell-springing, / And I sing of our woe and our weal.
I sing of strange songs and the wringing / Of hands in fatidical zeal, / Of great gloom-throated bells, ever ringing / With wild poems of bronze till they reel. / I sing of all terrors hell-springing, / And I sing of our woe and our weal.