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     While, timing to its minor strain,
The waves in lapsing cadence beat.

The waves are glad in breeze and sun;
     The rocks are fringed with foam;
I walk once more a haunted shore,
     A stranger, yet at home,
A land of dreams I roam.

Is this the wind, the soft sea-wind
     That stirred thy locks of brown?
Are these the rocks whose mosses knew
     The trail of thy light gown,
Where boy and girl sat down?

I see the gray fort's broken wall,
     The boats that rock below;
And, out at sea, the passing sails
     We saw so long ago
Rose-red in morning's glow.

The freshness of the early time
     On every breeze is blown;
As glad the sea, as blue the sky,—
     The change is ours alone;
The saddest is my own.

A stranger now, a world-worn man,
     Is he who bears my name;
But thou, methinks, whose mortal life
     Immortal youth became,
Art evermore the same.

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