POEMS.

��XXXI.

T MEANT to find her when I came

• Death had the same design ;

But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine.

I meant to tell her how I longed

For just this single time ; But Death had told her so the first,

And she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode ;

To rest, to rest would be A privilege of hurricane

To memory and me.

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