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SUMMER CAUSERIE

 

III.

 

In youth we raised our brows on high,
When first we heard Life's thunder roar,
Unwearied Life its thunder sent;
But we ere long our heads had bent,
Why let the brow be smitten sore?

Wherefore lament? Wise destiny
Has measured out our final hour!
A grave on earth . . . O wondrous fair,
Why for another end prepare?
Yea, for no longer have we power.

 

"Third Book of Lyrics".