The Pilgrim's Revery
And yet 'tis strange, but these are more
My own, to-night, than all beside,—
Glad stars upon a distant shore,
That draw my sails across the tide.
My own, to-night, than all beside,—
Glad stars upon a distant shore,
That draw my sails across the tide.
Fade, golden evenings, fade and sink!
Burn, crimson leaves, burn out and fall!
For life is other than we think,
And death the surest life of all.
Burn, crimson leaves, burn out and fall!
For life is other than we think,
And death the surest life of all.
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