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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXVI.
             
      You thought my heart too far diseased;
          You wonder when my fancies play
          To find me gay among the gay,
      Like one with any trifle pleased.

      The shade by which my life was crost,
          Which makes a desert in the mind,
          Has made me kindly with my kind,
      And like to him whose sight is lost;

      Whose feet are guided thro’ the land,
          Whose jest among his friends is free,
          Who takes the children on his knee,
      And winds their curls about his hand:

      He plays with threads, he beats his chair
          For pastime, dreaming of the sky;
          His inner day can never die,
      His night of loss is always there.
       


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