Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/768

  Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

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HEN youthful faith hath fled, Of loving take thy leave; Be constant to the dead— The dead cannot deceive.

Sweet modest flowers of Spring, How fleet your balmy day! And Man's brief life can bring No secondary May.

No earthly burst again Of gladness out of gloom, Fond hope and vision vain, Ungrateful to the tomb.

But 'tis an old belief That on some solemn shore Beyond the sphere of grief Dear friends shall meet once more:

Beyond the Sphere of Time And Sin and Fate's control, Serene in endless prime Of body and of soul.

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