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And so she brought me to the river's brink To plunge me downward. All the night was mine; And so, exulting, to Death's darker drink I stooped and drank.--What better drink divine, O man, hast thou? what wiser way is thine? Who find'st me carrion on a hungry coast, Sand in mine eyeballs, in my hair the brine, And o'er my corpse with bitter lips dost boast-- "Poor fool! poor ghost! Alas! poor, melancholy ghost!"