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Even So.

The days go by; the days go by,
Sadly and wearily to die:
Each with its burden of small cares,
Each with its sad gift of grey hairs
For those who sit, like me, and sigh,
“The days go by! The days go by!”




  ― 151 ―
Ah, nevermore on shining plumes,
Shedding a rain of rare perfumes
That men call memories, they are borne
As in Life's many-visioned morn,
When Love sang in the myrtle-blooms:
Ah, nevermore on shining plumes!

Where is my Life? Where is my Life?
The morning of my youth was rife
With the promise of a golden day.
Where have my hopes gone? Where are they—
The passions and the splendid strife?
Where is my Life? Where is my Life?

My thoughts take hue from this wild day,
And, like the skies, are ashen grey;
The sharp rain, falling constantly
Lashes with whips of steel the sea:
What words are left for Hope to say?
My thoughts take hue from this wild day.

I dreamt—my Life is all a dream!—
That I should sing a song supreme
To gladden all sad eyes that weep;
And take the Harp of Time and sweep
Its chords to some eternal theme.
I dreamt—my Life is all a dream.

The world is very old and wan—
The sun that once so brightly shone
Is now as pale as the pale moon.
I would that Death came swift and soon:
For all my dreams are dead and gone.
The world is very old and wan.




  ― 152 ―
The world is young, the world is strong,
But I in dreams have wandered long.
God lives. What can Death do to me?
(The sun is shining on the sea).
Yet shall I sing my splendid song—
The world is young, the world is strong.

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