So the struck eagle, stretchd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wingd the shaft that quiverd in his heart. – Lord (George Gordon) Byron

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The heavy rain beat down the tender branches of vine and jessamine, and trampled on them in its fury; and when the lightning gleamed, it showed the tearful leaves shivering and cowering together at the window, and tapping at it urgently, as if beseeching to be sheltered from the dismal night. – Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit, Chapter XLIII
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