  The last leaf ended, ere you lay My book aside, and turn to rest, Read here, old friends, between the lines, My loving memories of your West. The distance shortens to my eyes; To-morrow's sun will sink to rest Behind your hills. One day is all That separates us, East and West. Then hasten forth, my little book, Speed on your way, nor pause to rest; But, turning towards the setting sun, My greetings bear from East to West. "Tremont," Twenty-seventh May, 1892. |
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