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tried,” and how tender is the later good-night to one of these, “a friend, who bore thy name,” sleeping in sweet Auburn, around which the river still steals “with such silent pace.”
Others have written too of our river, ours and the world's, but the cool wind blows more freshly, reminding us that this is still March.
We look across to the Brighton meadows, look once more where “the Charles writes the last letter of his name,” and then turn homeward.
Young Women's Christian Association. , 1896. The Pinkham Press, Boston.
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