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Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor

An inner trouble I behold,

A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more,

Tho' following with an upward mind

The wonders that have come to thee,

Thro' all the secular to be,

But evermore a life behind.


And what delights can equal those

That stir the spirit's inner deeps,

When one that loves but knows not, re

A truth from one that loves and knows?

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How fares it with the happy dead?
For here the man is more and more;

But he forgets the days before
God shut the doorways of his head.

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint,
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense

Gives out at times (he knows not whence)

A little flash, a mystic hint;

And in the long harmonious years

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

If such a dreamy touch should fall,

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt,

My guardian angel will speak out

In that high place, and tell thee all.


THE baby new to earth and sky,

What time his tender palm is prest

Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that this is I:'

But as he grows he gathers much,

And learns the use of 'I,' and 'me,'

And finds I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch :'

So rounds he to a separate mind

From whence clear memory may begin,

As thro' the frame that binds him in defined.

His isolation grows

This use may lie in blood and breath,

Which else were fruitless of their due,

Had man to learn himself anew

Beyond the second birth of Death.

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