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The song within the lonely heart
Is sung in minor key,
Discordant and slow;
As the pines of November sing
When the cold winds blow,
And as the surf sings at low tide
In a morning sea.
The song within the lonely heart
Beneath the waning moon's
Remorseful rhythm,
Is sung by sad coyotes
In search of anthem,
As sung by mateless whippoorwills,
Lone curlews, parting loons.
The song within the lonely heart
Accomp'nied by the harp,
Dulcimer and flute;
The piercing sounds of piccolo
And the pensive lute,
Sung as the cold iron bells toll
At noontime, flat and sharp.
The song within the lonely heart
Is sung invariably
In painful silence;
As clouds in drought accumulate
Without recompence,
Save for a few late caterwauls
Of toneless revelry.
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