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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XII.
             
      Lo, as a dove when up she springs
          To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe,
          Some dolorous message knit below
      The wild pulsation of her wings;

      Like her I go; I cannot stay;
          I leave this mortal ark behind,
          A weight of nerves without a mind,
      And leave the cliffs, and haste away

      O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
          And reach the glow of southern skies,
          And see the sails at distance rise,
      And linger weeping on the marge,

      And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend?
          Is this the end of all my care?’
          And circle moaning in the air:
      ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’

      And forward dart again, and play
          About the prow, and back return
          To where the body sits, and learn
      That I have been an hour away.
       


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