Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/90

48 Shadow more solid, but less real

Than love and laughter whence it fell

Across my path with mute appeal

And served your spirit's purpose well—

So well that even I could see

It indistinguishably thee,

Till you had left it like a sheath

With laughter in the hands of death,

And left me gay, not miserable.

Ah, love had never more to loose:

If certain love had less to tell

Then might I in despair's excuse

Bid you a hopeless, vain farewell,

And by the stranger's grave have wept

A solemn while, and sadly kept

In mind his features filled not through

With breathing life, love living, you

Who smiled upon his burial.

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