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 And when the cherries, ripe and red, Come forth upon the breast of June, They'll tell me of a heart that bled, By men forgotten all too soon.

Ah, precious drops! through future days Preserve my soul from spot or stain, With tender thoughts of love and praise That once were mine in Cherry Lane.

SURRENDER

If thou art merely conscious clay—ah, well, Tire not such stuff with futile, tread-mill climb Which lifts to leave thee level with the slime; Nor think that death can break thy earth-born spell; Clay hath no heel Achillean, vulnerable. Be animate till some deliberate time Shall choke and crunch thee to potential grime, For thou art fit for neither heaven nor hell.

But He Who made thee cousin to the clod First plunged thee in the Spirit Which is He, Whence thou hast risen, divinely armed and shod To scale the ramparts of eternity. Already stricken with the shafts of God, Thou fallest prisoner to the Deity.