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.

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