In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 116

Is it, then, regret for buried time
        That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
        And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
        The life re—orient out of dust,
        Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
        Upon me, while I muse alone;
        And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:
Yet less of sorrow lives in me
        For days of happy commune dead;
        Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.
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