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SARAH HILDRETH BUTLER.
I seem to tread on graves since your swift goingThe trembling gates of loss wide open threw;All things were shaken in your overthrowing,And age its frosty breath upon me blew.And still, though life is dear, and dear shall beLove, and the fresh delights that are not few,My heart cries to you, wandering far and free,O great, sweet ghost, do you remember me?
