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Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life-- The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She, loved and loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet. A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled: Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been. Yet, though of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love. She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; Most like a vine which full of fruit Doth cling and lean and climb toward heaven, While earth still binds its root. I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers: Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk. While I? I sat alone and watched; My lot in life, to live alone In mine own world of interests, Much felt, but little shown. Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke: But, thank God, learned at last. So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here. Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come: Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first. DEAD HOPE. Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven. If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon. Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But
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