8 LOCKSLEVY HALL
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ead—and sixty years ago, and dead her agedhusband now,I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss’d her marble brow. Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses,passionate tears,Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet’s dawning years. Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashesfall’n away.Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below thechancel stones,All his virtues—I forgive them—black in white above his bones,
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