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A DIRGE
127
Where, at the portals of the day,
The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng,
While Time looks on,
And seraphs stand
Choiring an endless strain
On either hand.
Thou canst return no more;
Not as the happy time of spring
Comes after winter burgeoning
On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead.
Our tears we shed
In vain, for thou
Dost pace another shore,
Untroubled now.
