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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XVIII.
             
      íTis well; ítis something; we may stand
          Where he in English earth is laid,
          And from his ashes may be made
      The violet of his native land.

      íTis little; but it looks in truth
          As if the quiet bones were blest
          Among familiar names to rest
      And in the places of his youth.

      Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
          That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
          And come, whatever loves to weep,
      And hear the ritual of the dead.

      Ah yet, evín yet, if this might be,
          I, falling on his faithful heart,
          Would breathing throí his lips impart
      The life that almost dies in me;

      That dies not, but endures with pain,
          And slowly forms the the firmer mind,
          Treasuring the look it cannot find,
      The words that are not heard again.
       


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