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153

LIFE UNLIVED.

HOW many months, how many a weary year
My soul had stood upon that brink of days,
Straining dim eyes into the treacherous haze
For signs of life's beginning. Far and near
The grey mist floated, like a shadow-mere,
Beyond hope's bounds; and in the lapsing ways,
Pale phantoms flitted, seeming to my gaze
The portents of the coming hope and fear.
“Surely,” I said, “life shall rise up at last,
Shall sweep me by with pageant and delight!”
But, as I spoke, the waste shook with a blast
Of cries and clamours of a mighty fight;
Then all was still. Upon me fell the night
And a voice whispered to me, “Life is past.”