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 "They have buried him in vain!   Saturn, Saturn comes again! He was old. He was weak. He was dolorous,    And they buried him far away from us. They planted mountains upon his breast    And they mocked and said, 'There let him rest! Let the leaves of aeons of forests dead    Cover his eyelids, hide his head! Into a midnight deep as the world,    Let his old sad, mad heart be hurled!'" Ah, that cry! From many a pool Where are reflected strange dim faces, Faces tender and sad and cool, Under the shadow of leafy places, Came that voice that still I hear, Wild and low and sweet and clear, Over hushed dew-drenched lawns, Where rivers flow from secret dawns; Over forests faint and dim, Where the leaves and the shadows remember him. "They have buried him in vain!   Saturn, Saturn comes again!"

Oh tremulous hope! Oh large escape From the intolerable oppressors! Oh bent and bowed, resume your shape And dispossess the dispossessors!

Bring back the old and tender things, The things that weep, the things that play By the margins of eternal springs, Where twilight is lovelier than day,