To J. D. H.

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Dear friend, forgive a wild lament Insanely following thy flight. I would not cumber thine ascent Nor drag thee back into the night;

But the great sea-winds sigh with me, The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old, And I would that I might lie with thee There in the grave so cold, so cold!

Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee, And the round skies are far and steep; A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe, Pain is proud and scorns to weep.

My heart breaks if it cling about thee, And still breaks, if far from thine. O drear, drear death, to live without thee, O sad life—to keep thee mine.

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