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In Memoriam A.H.H.
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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