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 thought. In these poems there is both beauty and depth,—and something else."

Whatever this "something else" may be, it is certainly not rhyme or rhythm. The verses brook no bondage, but run loosely on with the perilous ease of enfranchisement. For the most part they are of the kind which used to be classified by compilers as "Poems of Nature," and "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Spring, summer, autumn, and winter are as inspirational for the dead as for the living.

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