which

Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? 🔊

The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. 🔊

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest: 🔊

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. 🔊

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: 🔊

This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. 🔊

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, 🔊

Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. 🔊

And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! 🔊

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