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It is shut to the glow of this present existence-
It hears, from the Past, a funeral strain;
And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,
Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again;
Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish-
Where grief bears no longer the poisonous sting;
Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish,
Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.
It is thus that the hopes, which to others are given,
Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May;
I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven-
I drink the bland airs that enliven the day;
And if gentle nature, her festival keeping,
Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn:--
O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping,
For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.
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