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Mild is the Parting Year

 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
The odour of the falling spray; 
Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom, But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all.

by Walter Savage Landor
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