IV
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hough thirty years of blur and blotHave slid since I beheld that spot,And saw in curious converse thereMoving slowly, moving sadlyThat mysterious tragic pair,Its olden look may linger on—All but the couple; they have gone. V Whither? Who knows, indeed . . . And yetTo me, when nights are weird and wet,Without those comrades there at trystCreeping slowly, creeping sadly,That lone lane does not exist.There they seem brooding on their pain,And will, while such a lane remain.
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