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Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be When no breath troubles them.

is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of?—blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild:

And now thou tremblest!—wherefore?—in thy soul There lies no past, no future.—Thou hast heard No sound of presage from the distance roll, Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.