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The Past
Looking upon the wild broad-branch’d tree,
Whose mystic shadows, in the shape of a spire,
Relieve against the cold nocturnal sky—
Obsidian touch’d with the hue of sapphire—
I recall, in thoughts remote and serene,
That age which hath like argent revelry
Evanesced and silenced in the demesne
Of Spring, beneath a faded moon; I sigh,
For the dew of sadness sinks chill in this heart;
That age of fleeting dreams—the Age of Thee—
With brilliant fanfares, with aught that must depart—
Doth flash on me; down-looking, whisper I:
“Thou, shrin’d in my deep, in truth hast ne’er gone;
’Tis I, ’tis mine, are changed—not thee, loved one.”
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