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164

LXII. “SO GREAT A THING”

If Life with all its songs and all its dreams—
Its flowers and scents of June, its songs of May,—
Its early dreams of love that pass away
And float like red leaves down the autumn streams
Of pale remembrance; Life with all its gleams
Of moonlit storm-clouds seen through sheets of spray
And sunny noons that merge themselves in grey
Dim afternoons wherethrough no sunlight beams:—
If all these things be but of little worth—
If it be hardly worth while to be born
Just to feel Fate's black-browed sinister scorn
And watch all sunlight slowly fade from earth,—
Yet to have seen thee is so great a thing
That even Life was worth encountering.