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Rh And as the flower, when it hath borne its fruit, Doth pass, we know not how, we know not where; So he who to the world hath given hope, Doth for his portion take the world's despair. Because there cometh yet a darker time, Wherein the broken cisterns hold no more ; Wherein the mourners go about the streets, And work, the last of joys, shall all be o'er ; — Rejoice, O young man ! in thy pride of life, Sing, seer ! the songs that will not come again ; But know that still for these the judgment waits, And God shall hold thee steward of thy pain.