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 For patient virtues, that their light May shine to all men, want the night: And holy Peace, unused to cope, Sits meekly at the tomb of Hope, Saying that 'she is risen!'

Then I Will sorrow not at destiny,— Though from thine eyes, and from thine heart, The glory of their light depart; Though on thy voice, and on thy brow, Should come a fiercer change than now; Though thou no more be made of glee, When my next song is said for thee.