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No more the thunder and the urge
Of earth's full tides that storm the verge
Of heaven with their sweep and surge
Shall lift, shall bear him on;
Where is the golden hope that led
Him comrade with the mighty dead?
The love that aureoled his head?—
The glory is withdrawn!
How shall one soar with broken wings?
The leaguèd might of futile things
Wars with the heart that dares and sings;—
It is not always Dawn!
A little while, with age and death,
He wanders, dreaming.
[22]
