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Rh Truly, I must grow duller, or die like a severed branchlet, — Dying is coming to you, and ending the story sad ; Only the sickness of grief lingers so long in its killing ; Shall I, by instinct, forget the brightness my days once had? Learn like a flower to sleep, or, bird-like, be lightly glad? Save me from that, O Roger ! keep me alive to sorrow ; Human, by birthright of pain, and free of the guild of woe ; Tender, by thorns in the heart, so that our kindred may trust me ; Dropping not gall, but balm, as you did, wherever I go; Oh, let me meet you worthy, though swift come the time, or slow.