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 Though the same wind now blows around, You would its blast recall; For every breath that stirs the trees, Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth That flesh and dust impart: We cannot bear its visitings, When change is on the heart. Gay words and jests may make us smile, When Sorrow is asleep; But other things must make us smile, When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands,— Their pressure may be o'er: The dearest voice that meets our ear, That tone may come no more!