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[113] Of one in sun and shade the same,
     In weal and woe my steady friend,
Whatever by that holy name
     The angels comprehend.

Not blind to faults and follies, thou
     Hast never failed the good to see,
Nor judged by one unseemly bough
     The upward-struggling tree.

These light leaves at thy feet I lay,—
     Poor common thoughts on common things,
Which time is shaking, day by day,
     Like feathers from his wings;

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree,
     To nurturing care but little known,
Their good was partly learned of thee,
     Their folly is my own.

That tree still clasps the kindly mould,
     Its leaves still drink the twilight dew,
And weaving its pale green with gold,
     Still shines the sunlight through.

There still the morning zephyrs play,
     And there at times the spring bird sings,
And mossy trunk and fading spray
     Are flowered with glossy wings.

Yet, even in genial sun and rain,
     Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade;
The wanderer on its lonely plain
     Erelong shall miss its shade.

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