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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXIX.
             
      I dream’d there would be Spring no more,
          That Nature’s ancient power was lost:
          The streets were black with smoke and frost,
      They chatter’d trifles at the door:

      I wander’d from the noisy town,
          I found a wood with thorny boughs:
          I took the thorns to bind my brows,
      I wore them like a civic crown:

      I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
          From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
          They call’d me in the public squares
      The fool that wears a crown of thorns:

      They call’d me fool, they call’d me child:
          I found an angel of the night;
          The voice was low, the look was bright;
      He look’d upon my crown and smiled:

      He reach’d the glory of a hand,
          That seem’d to touch it into leaf:
          The voice was not the voice of grief,
      The words were hard to understand.
       


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