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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            XCIX.
             
      Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
          So loud with voices of the birds,
          So thick with lowings of the herds,
      Day, when I lost the flower of men;

      Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red
          On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast
          By meadows breathing of the past,
      And woodlands holy to the dead;

      Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
          A song that slights the coming care,
          And Autumn laying here and there
      A fiery finger on the leaves;

      Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
          To myriads on the genial earth,
          Memories of bridal, or of birth,
      And unto myriads more, of death.

      O wheresoever those may be,
          Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
          To-day they count as kindred souls;
      They know me not, but mourn with me.
       


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