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saw his face, or knew his name, But that gay morning as I loitering came Around the blossoming hillside, all aflame

With lilac spires and apple-blossoms brave, That to the rifling air their sweetness gave, I saw where they were making him his grave.

If I had chanced to meet him by the way, In all the golden sunshine of the day, No pleasant word I might have found to say;

But since he could no longer come to meet The world, love-smitten, dreaming at his feet, Nor feel within his pulse the Spring-tide beat,

Nor love again, I gave for him instead, And poured upon his low, unconscious head The sacramental love that shrives the dead.