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Poem	It is as if a silver chord Were suddenly grown mute, And life's song with its rhythm warred Against a silver lute. It is as if a silence fell Where bides the garnered sheaf, And voices murmuring, "It is well," Are stifled by our grief. It is as if the gloom of night Had hid a summer's day, And willows, sighing at their plight, Bent low beside the way. For he was part of all the best That Nature loves and gives, And ever more on Memory's breast He lies and laughs and lives.
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