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629                                                   Lines

WHEN youthful faith hath fled,
   Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead—
   The dead cannot deceive.
Sweet modest flowers of Spring,
   How fleet your balmy day!
And Man’s brief life can bring
   No secondary May:
No earthly burst again
   Of gladness out of gloom,
Fond hope and vision vain,
   Ungrateful to the tomb.
But ’tis an old belief
   That on some solemn shore
Beyond the sphere of grief
   Dear friends shall meet once more:
Beyond the sphere of Time
   And Sin and Fate’s control,
Serene in endless prime
   Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
   That hope I’ll not forgo—
Eternal be the sleep
   Unless to waken so!


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