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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXXXI.
             
      Could I have said while he was here,
          ‘My love shall now no further range;
          There cannot come a mellower change,
      For now is love mature in ear.’

      Love, then, had hope of richer store:
          What end is here to my complaint?
          This haunting whisper makes me faint,
      ‘More years had made me love thee more.’

      But Death returns an answer sweet:
          ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain,
          And gave all ripeness to the grain,
      It might have drawn from after-heat.’
       


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