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Death, Death! ere yet decay, Call me not hence away, Over the golden hours no shade is thrown; The poesy that dwells Deep in green woods and dells, Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.

Yet not for this, O Death! Not for the vernal breath Of winds that shake forth music from the trees; Not for the splendour given To night's dark regal heaven, Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.

But for the happy love Whose light, where'er I rove, Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, Shedding on branch and flower A rainbow-tinted shower Of richer life—spare, spare me yet awhile.