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1 72 POEMS.
��XXXIV.
O UPERFLUOUS were the sun
- When excellence is dead ;
He were superfluous every day, For every day is said
That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair,
And whose ' I '11 meet you ' hesitates If love inquire, ' Where ? '
Upon his dateless fame
Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous
From an abundant sky.
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