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MY IDOL.

I MADE me a glorious idol,

All fashioned by mortal hands;

And there on its shrined altar

All mute and icy it stands.

The hair is falling in clusters,

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And the eye is open to see;

But never a glance nor favoring smile

Has that marble eye for me.

The lips are open for speaking,

And I long for a single word;

I have prayed and besought my idol,

But never an answer have heard.

The smile that I carved in triumph

But mocks me now in scorn,

Yet I bend to my ruthless idol,

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