FRIEND BEYOND
They've a way of whispering to me—fellow-wight who yet abide—
In the muted, incasured note
Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide:
"We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to antidote,
Unsuccesses to success,
Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of thought.
"No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial stress;
Chill detraction stirs no sigh;
Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we possess."
W. D.—"Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that I set such vallie by."
Squire.—"You may hold the manse in fee,
You may wed my spouse, my children's memory of me may decry."
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