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The morn hath not the glory that it wore Nor doth the day so beautifully die Since I can call thee to my side no more, To gaze upon the sky For thy dear hand with each return of spring I sought in sunny nooks the flowers she gave, I seek them still and sorrowfully bring The choicest to thy grave. Here where I sit alone is sometimes heard From the great world a whisper of my name Joined haply, to some kind commanding word By those whose praise is fame And then as if I thought thou still wert nigh I turn me half forgetting thou art dead To read the gentle gladness in thine eye That once I might have read I turn but see thee not, before mine eyes The image of a hill side mound appears Where all of thee that passed not to the skies Was laid with bitter tears And I whose thoughts go back to happier days That fled with thee would gladly now resign All that the world can give of fame or praise For one sweet look of thine Thus ever when I read of generous deeds Such words as thou didst once delight to hear My heart is wrung with anguish as it bleeds To think thou art not near. And now that I can talk no more with thee of ancient friends and days too fair to last A bitterness blends with the memory of all that happy past. Oh, when I -- Fragment found among Mr. Bryants papers
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Reopened for Editing 2023-03-25 16:04:05