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He lieth still: he doth not move :
Old year, you must not go ;
He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
Old year, you shall not die ;
He was full of joke and jest,
Every one for his own. ·
How hard he breathes ! over the snow
Shake hands, before you die.
And waiteth at the door.
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those
That are cast in gentle mould.
And me this knowledge bolder made,
Or else I had not dared to flow
Even with a verse your holy woe.
'Tis strange that those we lean on most,
Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost :
Those we love first are taken first.
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
This is the curse of time. Alas!
In grief I am not all unlearn’d; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ;
One went, who never hath return’d.
vi. He will not smile—not speak to me
Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he
Without whose life I had not been.
Your loss is rarer; for this star
Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far
Shot on the sudden into dark.