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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXXVII.
             
      What hope is here for modern rhyme
          To him, who turns a musing eye
          On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
      Foreshorten’d in the tract of time?

      These mortal lullabies of pain
          May bind a book, may line a box,
          May serve to curl a maiden’s locks;
      Or when a thousand moons shall wane

      A man upon a stall may find,
          And, passing, turn the page that tells
          A grief, then changed to something else,
      Sung by a long-forgotten mind.

      But what of that? My darken’d ways
          Shall ring with music all the same;
          To breathe my loss is more than fame,
      To utter love more sweet than praise.
       


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