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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXXXVIII.
             
      Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
          Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks,
          O tell me where the senses mix,
      O tell me where the passions meet,

      Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ
          Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,
          And in the midmost heart of grief
      Thy passion clasps a secret joy:

      And I–my harp would prelude woe–
          I cannot all command the strings;
          The glory of the sum of things
      Will flash along the chords and go.
       


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