XIII
And he the Messenger, who takes away
The faded garments, purple, white, and gray
Of all our dreams unto the Dyer, will
Bring back new robes to-morrow—so they say.
XIV
But now the funeral is passing by.
And in its trail, beneath this moaning sky.
The howdaj comes,—both vanish into night;
To me are one, the sob, the joyous cry.
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