Page:Poems, chiefly lyrical.pdf/96

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ALL THINGS WILL DIE.

 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the southwinds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this Maymorning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;