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  tears, idle tears, i know not what they mean,
tears from the depth of some divine despair
rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
in looking on the happy autumn-fields,
and thinking of the days that are no more.

   fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
that brings our friends up from the underworld,
sad as the last which reddens over one
that sinks with all we love below the verge;
so sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

   ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
the earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
to dying ears, when unto dying eyes
the casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
so sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

   dear as remembered kisses after death,
and sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
on lips that are for others; deep as love,
deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
o death in life, the days that are no more!



      she ended with such passion that the tear,
she sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl
lost in her bosom:  but with some disdain
answered the princess, 'if indeed there haunt
about the mouldered lodges of the Past
so sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,
well needs it we should cram our ears with wool
and so pace by:  but thine are fancies hatched
in silken-folded idleness; nor is it
wiser to weep a true occasion lost,
but trim our sails, and let old bygones be,
while down the streams that float us each and all
to the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,
throne after throne, and molten on the waste
becomes a cloud:  for all things serve their time
toward that great year of equal mights and rights,
nor would i fight with iron laws, in the end
found golden:  let the past be past; let be
their cancelled babels:  though the rough kex break
the starred mosaic, and the beard-blown goat
hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split
their monstrous idols, care not while we hear
a trumpet in the distance pealing news
of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns
above the unrisen morrow


***

all this talk of regret, lets go slumming
and start all over again.
the greatest ghost writer couldn't help you
to write a draft of your life

***

thursday cxli

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wabbit season
jones_casey
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