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[XVI. Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace]
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186

[XVI. Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace]

Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace
On the high hemlock pine, or sandstone bank,
Hating all shock of hue, or contrast rank,
With some consenting colour heals the place,
Or o'er it draws her mosses green and dank,
So gentle Time will bring with tender craft
Another day, and other greens ingraft
On the dead soil, so fire-burned now, and blank.
What we have had, we hold! and cannot sink
Remembrance: patience cometh from above.
And now he breathes apart, to daily drink
In tears the bitter ashes of his love,
Yet precious rich, and a diviner draught
Than Agria, or Artemisia drank!