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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXI.
             
      If, in thy second state sublime,
          Thy ransom’d reason change replies
          With all the circle of the wise,
      The perfect flower of human time;

      And if thou cast thine eyes below,
          How dimly character’d and slight,
          How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night,
      How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

      Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,
          Where thy first form was made a man:
          I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can
      The soul of Shakespeare love thee more.
       


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