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Yet never catch her and me together,
As she left the attic, there,
And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
We loved, sir — used to meet : How sad and bad and mad it was —
But then, how it was sweet!
MAY AND DEATH.
I WISH that when you died last May,
Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things ;
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps !
There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm
Moon-births and the long evening-ends.
So, for their sakes, be May still May !
Let their new time, as mine of old, Do all it did for me: I bid
Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.