There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the heft Of cathedral tunes. Heavenly hurt it gives us; We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are. None may teach it any, 'Tis the seal of despair,- An imperial affliction Sent us of the air. When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, 'tis like the distance On the look of death.
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