The sharp constraint of finger tips,
Or the shuddering touch of lips.
I heard the hour strike small and still,
From the black belfry on the hill.
Behind me I could still look down
On the outspread monstrous town.
The sharp constraint of finger tips,
Or the shuddering touch of lips,
And all old memories of delight
Crowd upon my soul tonight.
Behind me I could still look down
On the outspread feverish town;
But before me, still and grey,
And lonely was the forward way.
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