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POEMS.
��XXXI.
T MEANT to find her when I came
- Death had the same design ;
But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine.
I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time ; But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.
To wander now is my abode ;
To rest, to rest would be A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.
�� �
