  Gav’st, too, the rusting rain, And starry dark’s all tender dews To blunt and stain: Out of the battle I am sped, Unharmed, yet stricken sore; A living shape ’mid whispering shades On Lethe’s shore. No trophy in my hands I bring, To this sad, sighing stream, The neighings and the trumps and cries Were but a dream—a dream. Traitor to life, of life betrayed— O, of thy mercy deep, A dream my all, the all I ask Is sleep. |
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