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 ET him be God's, not mine, — 'tis better so. I marred the music of his spirit's lute, And brushed my hand too rudely through its strings : And now it lieth mute. I might have gladdened him, and would not know, And so there stepped an angel on the way, And bore him past me, opening mine eyes. It is too late to-day. I can but pray for him, ay, still will pray ; Death is no farther off than life, I wis : A deeper thrill of joy shall pulse through him, Ay, even 'mid Heaven's bliss.