HYMN TO POETRY
Oh! When all rhymes be written,
With words that too be told,
And all thoughts as if some sicken’d
Whispers of the past, like old
Glories inglorious be;
That day there will only
Be a sigh to breathe for me,
Like a tree standing lonely
In winter breeze, dead, yet quicken’d.
As do I, when my grief is spoken.
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