Melancholy

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Melancholy

The rain and wind, the rain and wind, raved endlessly.

On me the Summer storm, and fever, and melancholy

Wrought magic, so that if I feared the solitude

Far more I feared all company: too sharp, too rude,

Had been the wisest or the dearest human voice.

What I desired I knew not, but whate’er my choice

Vain it must be, I knew. Yet naught did my despair

But sweeten the strange sweetness, while through the wild air

All day long I heard a distant cuckoo calling

And, soft as dulcimers, sounds of near water falling,

And, softer, and remote as if in history,

Rumours of what had touched my friends, my foes, or me.