Page:Songs of the Affections.pdf/187

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solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain Meet in the sky: "Thou art gone hence!" one sang; "Our light is flown, Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own, Ever to die!

"Thou art gone hence!—our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise!