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IT is not death, that—sometime—in a sigh
OTHERS abide our question—Thou art free.
HOAR Time about the house betakes him slow,
For now December, full of aged care,
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
I HOLD it now more shameful to forget
"The world is fair," the elder spirit saith,
"The tide flows fast, and on the further shore
Wait consolations and surprises rare."
But youth still cries, "The love that was my faith
Is broken, and the ruined shrine is bare
And I am all alone for evermore."
GAILY and greenly let my seasons run: