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As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate,

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same,

Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate;

And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; 150

The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill,

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl,

And midway its leap his heart stood still

Like a frozen waterfall;

For this man, so foul and bent of stature,

Rasped harshly against his dainty nature,

And seemed the one blot on the summer morn—

So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell

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