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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XIII.
               
      Tears of the widower, when he sees
          A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
          And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
      Her place is empty, fall like these;

      Which weep a loss for ever new,
          A void where heart on heart reposed;
          And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
      Silence, till I be silent too.

      Which weeps the comrade of my choice,
          An awful thought, a life removed,
          The human-hearted man I loved,
      A Spirit, not a breathing voice.

      Come Time, and teach me, many years,
          I do not suffer in a dream;
          For now so strange do these things seem,
      Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;

      My fancies time to rise on wing,
          And glance about the approaching sails,
          As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales,
      And not the burthen that they bring.
       


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