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Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have lov'd so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing, In their bright reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring,— And thou wert pass'd away!

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought O'er my vain sadness came; Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said, Thou must have look'd ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below.