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She taketh on her all our grief;
Her Passion passeth all relief;
In vain she holds the poppy leaf-

In vain her lotus crown.
Even fabled Lethe hath no rest,
No solace for her troubled breast,

And no oblivion.

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“Childhood and youth are vain," she saith, “Since all things ripen unto death; The flower is blasted by the breath

That called it from the earth. And yet,” she saith, “this thing is sureThere is no life but shall endure,

And death is only birth.
“From death or birth no powers defend,
And thus from grade to grade we tend,
By resurrections without end,

Unto some final peace.
But distant is that peace,” she saith ;
Yet eagerly awaiteth Death,

Expecting her release.
“Oh Rest,” she saith, “that will not come,
Not even when our lips are dumb,
Not even when our limbs are numb,

And graves are growing green. Oh Death, that, coming on apace, Dost look so kindly in the face,

Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien."

But still she gives the shadow place-
Our Lady, with the saddest grace,
Doth yield her to his feigned embrace,

And to his treachery!
Ye must not draw aside her veil ;
Ye must not hear her dying wail;
Ye must not see her die.

But, hark! from out the stillness rise Low-murmured myths and prophecies, And chants that tremble to the skies

Miserere Domine ! They, trembling, lose themselves in rest, Soothing the anguish of her breast

Miserere Domine !




You stooped and picked a wreathed shell

Beside the shining sea-
“ This little shell, when I am gone,

Will whisper still of me.”
I kissed your hands, upon the sands,

For you were kind to me.

I hold the shell against my ear,

And hear its hollow roar;
It speaks to me about the sea,

But speaks of you no more.
I pace the sands, and wring my hands,

For you are kind no more.


Down at the end of the long, dark street,

Years, years ago,
I sat with my sweetheart on the pier,

Watching the river flow.

The moon was climbing the sky that night,

White as the winter's snow: We kissed in its light, and swore to be true

But that was years ago!

Once more I walk in the dark old street,

Wearily to and from
But I sit no more on the desolate pier,

Watching the river flow.


The sky is thick upon the sea,

The sea is sown with rain,
And in the passing gusts we hear

The clanging of the cranc.

The cranes are flying to the South;

We cut the northern foam;
The dreary land they leave behind

Must be our future home.

Its barren shores are long and dark,

And gray its autumn sky;
But better these than this gray sea,

If but to land-and die !

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All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ;
All night long the stars in heav'n o'er the slain sad vigils kept.
Oh the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night!
Oh the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light !

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