My life is like the single dewy star
that trembles on the horizon's
primrose-bar,-
A microcosm where all things living are.
And if, among the noiseless grasses,
Death should come behind and take
away my breath,
I should not rise as one who sorrower;
For I should pass,
but all the world would be
full of desire and young delight and glee,
and why should men be sad through loss
of...?
The light is flying;
in the silver-blue
the young moon shines from her bright window
through;
The mowers are all gone,
and I go too...
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