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In Memoriam A.H.H.
Old
warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark
yew, that graspest at the stones
And
dippest toward the dreamless head,
To thee too comes the golden hour
When flower is feeling after flower;
But
Sorrow–fixt upon the dead,
And
darkening the dark graves of men,–
What whisper’d from her lying lips?
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
And
passes into gloom again.
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