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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

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-03-25 16:04:05