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If anybody's friend be dead, It's sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive, At such and such a time.

Their costume, of a Sunday, Some manner of the hair,— A prank nobody knew but them, Lost, in the sepulchre.

How warm they were on such a day: You almost feel the date, So short way off it seems; and now, They're centuries from that.

How pleased they were at what you said; You try to touch the smile, And dip your fingers in the frost: When was it, can you tell,