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Lyrical Poems

By Francis Turner Palgrave

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THE THREE AGES
  
  
  
  
  
  
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THE THREE AGES

On the eve of the blessed birthday
The child in its cot is awake;
And thinks how the stars are raining
Sweet gifts for Christmas' sake.
On the eve of the marriage morrow
The bride is unquiet by night;
And the arrows of sunrise pierce her
With indefinite shy delight.
And Age lies sleepless and yearning
For child and mother afar;
But the light that shines on their faces
Is farther than sun or star.
—O broken arc and unmeaning,
Though the fragments are so sweet,
If the curve be not one hereafter,
And the circle of love complete!