Page:A Century of Roundels.djvu/37

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A Dead Friend.


How should life, O friend, forget
 Death, whose guest art thou?
Faith responds to love's regret,

 Still, for us that bow
Sorrowing, still, though life be set,
 Shines thy bright mild brow.

Yea, though death and thou be met,
 Love may find thee now
Still, albeit we know not yet