Chapter_12

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He dreams of mischief; and that brainborn ill

Man’s open face bears in his jealous view.

Fain would he fly his doom; that doom is still

His own black thoughts, and they must aye pursue.

Too proud for merriment, or the pure dew

Soft glistening on the sympathising cheek;

As some dark, lonely, evil-natured yew,

Whose poisonous fruit⁠—so fabling poets speak⁠—

Beneath the moon’s pale gleam the midnight hag doth seek.