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38 Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,

The angels hail an added flower of love.

Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,

Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,

Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye

Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.

Thy garden rose-bud bore, within its breast,

Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,

That the bleak climate of this lower sphere

Could never waken into form and light.

Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,

Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;

Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour,

Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.