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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXXIV.
             
      As sometimes in a dead man’s face,
          To those that watch it more and more,
          A likeness, hardly seen before,
      Comes out–to some one of his race:

      So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,
          I see thee what thou art, and know
          Thy likeness to the wise below,
      Thy kindred with the great of old.

      But there is more than I can see,
          And what I see I leave unsaid,
          Nor speak it, knowing Death has made
      His darkness beautiful with thee.
       


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