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you feel, in the Chaos of Things, Life is somewhat a sorrowful jest, Come to the shadow of Love's soft wings, To starlit silence and dreams and rest. Leaving the glory, the pomp, the power, Fame and fortune and folly and fret, The Western sun is a golden flower! Come to love, come to forget!

Turn your tender and radiant eyes, Eyes like amethysts, jewelled and clear, What do they see in the world to prize, Which of its baubles would they hold dear? Vain are the glories, every one, Vain to conquer and vain to regret;— The falling shadows engulf the sun, Come to love, come to forget!

The Flag of Glory is quickly furled, The Sword of Honour is hardly more; To those who wander about the world The standards vary; one is not sure. 81