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[100] Slow passed that vision from my view,
     But not the lesson which it taught;
The soft, calm shadows which it threw
     Still rested on my thought:

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage,
     Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime,
Plant for their deathless heritage
     The fruits and flowers of time.

We shape ourselves the joy or fear
     Of which the coming life is made,
And fill our Future's atmosphere
     With sunshine or with shade.

The tissue of the Life to be
     We weave with colors all our own,
And in the field of Destiny
     We reap as we have sown.

Still shall the soul around it call
     The shadows which it gathered here,
And, painted on the eternal wall,
     The Past shall reappear.

Think ye the notes of holy song
     On Milton's tuneful ear have died?
Think ye that Raphael's angel throng
     Has vanished from his side?

Oh no!—We live our life again;
     Or warmly touched, or coldly dim,

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Milton, Mass. (Massachusetts, United States) (1)

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