In Memoriam A.H.H.
it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
colours of the crescent prime?
all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust
that which made the world so fair.
all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
speak to me of me and mine:
less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
some strong bond which is to be.
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