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 For what we owe to other days, 
Before we poisoned him with praise, 
May we who shrank to find him weak 
Remember that he cannot speak.
For envy that we may recall, And for our faith before the fall, May we who are alive be slow To tell what we shall never know.
For penance he would not confess, And for the fateful emptiness Of early triumph undermined, May we now venture to be kind.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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