660
 
’Tis good—the looking back on Grief—
To re-endure a Day—
We thought the Mighty Funeral—
Of All Conceived Joy—
 
To recollect how Busy Grass
Did meddle—one by one—
Till all the Grief with Summer—waved
And none could see the stone.
 
And though the Woe you have Today
Be larger—As the Sea
Exceeds its Unremembered Drop—
They’re Water—equally—

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