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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XCI.
             
      When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,
          And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;
          Or underneath the barren bush
      Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;

      Come, wear the form by which I know
          Thy spirit in time among thy peers;
          The hope of unaccomplish’d years
      Be large and lucid round thy brow.

      When summer’s hourly-mellowing change
          May breathe, with many roses sweet,
          Upon the thousand waves of wheat,
      That ripple round the lonely grange;

      Come: not in watches of the night,
          But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
          Come, beauteous in thine after form,
      And like a finer light in light.
       


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