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his days: Age gives thanks for thee, and death lacks heart to quench thy praise. AT A DOG'S GRAVE I Good night, we say, when comes the time to win The daily death divine that shuts up sight, Sleep, that assures for all who dwell therein Good night. The shadow shed round those we love shines bright As love's own face, when death, sleep's gentler twin, From them divides us even as night from light. Shall friends born lower in life, though pure of sin, Though clothed with love and faith to usward plight, Perish and pass unbidden of us, their kin, Good night? II To die a dog's death once was held for shame. Not all men so beloved and mourned shall lie As many of these, whose time untimely came To die. His years were full: his years were joyous: why Must love be sorrow, when his gracious name Recalls his lovely life of limb and eye? If aught of blameless life on earth may claim Life higher than death, though death's dark wave rise high, Such life as this among us never came To die. III White violets, there by hands more sweet than they Planted, shall sweeten April's flowerful air About a grave that shows to night and day White violets there. A child's light hands, whose touch makes flowers more fair, Keep fair as these for many a March and May The light of days that are because they were. It shall not like a blossom pass away; It broods and brightens with the days that bear Fresh fruits of love, but leave, as love might pray, White violets there. THREE WEEKS OLD Three weeks since there was no such rose in being; Now may eyes made dim with deep delight See how fair it is, laugh with love, and seeing Praise the chance that bids us bless the sight. Three weeks old, and a very rose of roses, Bright and sweet as love is sweet and bright. Heaven and earth, till a man's life wanes and closes, Show not life or love a lovelier sight. Three weeks past have renewed the rosebright creature Day by day with life, and night by night. Love, though fain of its every faultless feature, Finds not words to match the silent sight.
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