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I, too, have come to feel and see
How little in the world can be
Ours, as we pine and pass —
How all we long for, know of, love,
As in a dream from us remove,
Till each becomes the shadow of
A light that was.
We must all somehow be made
One with time, that fleeting shade;
Until we within the dust
Wither as sweet violets must
In their own scent, as they lie
Like a virgin memory
Trembling with its sweetest breath
In the mystery of death.
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