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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            CVII.
             
      It is the day when he was born,
          A bitter day that early sank
          Behind a purple-frosty bank
      Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

      The time admits not flowers or leaves
          To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
          The blast of North and East, and ice
      Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves,

      And bristles all the brakes and thorns
          To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
          Above the wood which grides and clangs
      Its leafless ribs and iron horns

      Together, in the drifts that pass
          To darken on the rolling brine
          That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine,
      Arrange the board and brim the glass;

      Bring in great logs and let them lie,
          To make a solid core of heat;
          Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
      Of all things ev’n as he were by;

      We keep the day. With festal cheer,
          With books and music, surely we
          Will drink to him, whate’er he be,
      And sing the songs he loved to hear.
       


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