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Rh And there had flung an ancient dirge Against the burnished sky, Like ocean threnodies that surge And swell and swooning die.

But Love has crucified Death's fears, The grave has set thee free, And all the sweetness of slow tears Is turned to mockery.

O white Lord Christ, Thy love's caress, Thy prophecy that saith These dead shall wake from weariness, Shames all who mourn for death;

And faith in immortality, Affrighted blind belief That troubles death's reality, Has crushed dim fragrant grief.

Nay, I were mad to weep for thee,— But oh thy silken hair! And oh the twilight memory, The darkening despair!