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the old deserted place,
 * So long forsaken and forlorn,

There lingers still a touch of grace,
 * A fragrance every year new-born.

For lilacs there in Spring unfold
 * Beside the long unopened door,

Communion still they seem to hold
 * With those who come and go no more.

Against the window-frame they lean,
 * Their banners floating to the air,

And spread their arms as if to screen
 * The silent shadows lurking there.

Pale spires uplifted to the sun
 * Break into bloom as if to fill,

In memory of days long done,
 * The empty place with fragrance still.