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There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain
'Tis Pain's Successor—When the Soul
Has suffered all it can

A Drowsiness—diffuses
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness
As Mists—obliterate a Crag

The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain
His Habit—is severe
But tell him that it ceased to feel
The Creature lying there

And he will tell you—skill is late
A Mightier than He
Has ministered before Him
There's no Vitality