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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXVIII.
             
      When in the down I sink my head,
          Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath;
          Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death,
      Nor can I dream of thee as dead:

      I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn,
          When all our path was fresh with dew,
          And all the bugle breezes blew
      Reveillée to the breaking morn.

      But what is this? I turn about,
          I find a trouble in thine eye,
          Which makes me sad I know not why,
      Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:

      But ere the lark hath left the lea
          I wake, and I discern the truth;
          It is the trouble of my youth
      That foolish sleep transfers to thee.
       


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