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Rh In the fields a harvest dead, In the woods life’s promise fled, And the lark is blown seaward as he sings.

Far better you were sleeping, O my soul. Than that your coming forth a moment stole From another’s heart its rest. Die you silent in my breast And seek in death that answer life denied: Lest a dying voice should curse instead of pray, Lest a heart should shadow, blighted of its May, Lest a soul glad of its light Should be plunged in gloom of night. Be in the World’s seeing satisfied.