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II.—HAS IT ALL PASSED?
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II.—HAS IT ALL PASSED?

Has it all passed? Is there no more divine
Nectar of love made ready in the years
To come,—no further draughts of passion's wine?
No further circlets,—though these drop with tears?
Better it is a dewy wreath to twine
Than no wreath,—better is a cloud-swept day
Than utter darkness crushing with dismay
The sun-desiring rose, the sweet woodbine.
The wreaths of passion were full often wet
With tears, I know it,—yet how sad the dry
Long passionless cold days that must be met,—
The path that must be traversed by-and-bye,—
The glancing back,—the wondering,—the regret,—
The seeking for lost pleasure;—till we die.