< Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf
'Tis strange that those we lean on most,
God gives us love. Something to love
This is the curse of time. Alas!
He will not smile—not speak to me
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TO J. S.
159
iii.
Those in whose laps our limbs are nurst,
Fall into shadow, soonest lost:
Those we love first are taken first.
iv.
He lends us; but, when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
v.
In grief I am not all unlearned:
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass;
One went, who never hath returned.
vi.
Once more. Two years his chair is seen
Empty before us. That was he
Without whose life I had not been.
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