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There is enough of sadness to invite,

If only for the rose that died, - whose doom

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Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light;
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite

Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

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BALLAD.

SPRING it is cheery,

Winter is dreary,

Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

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Age has no honey,

What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly,

O for its folly!

A dancing leg and a laughing eye;

Youth may be silly,

Wisdom is chilly,

What can an old man do but die?

Friends, they are scanty,

Beggars are plenty,

If he has followers, I know why;

Gold's in his clutches,

(Buying him crutches!)

What can an old man do but die?

HYMN TO THE SUN.

GIVER of glowing light!

Though but a god of other days,

The kings and sages

Of wiser ages

Still live and gladden in thy genial rays!

King of the tuneful lyre,

Still poets' hymns to thee belong;

Though lips are cold

Whereon of old

Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song!

Lord of the dreadful bow,

None triumph now for Python's death;

But thou dost save

From hungry grave

The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day,

No more thy clouds of incense rise;

But waking flow'rs

At morning hours,

Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fane,

No more thou listenest to hymns sublime;

But they will leave

On winds at eve,

A solemn echo to the end of time.

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