Of nearness to her sundered Things The Soul has special times - When Dimness - looks the Oddity - Distinctness - easy - seems - The Shapes we buried, dwell about, Familiar, in the Rooms - Untarnished by the Sepulchre, The Mouldering Playmate comes -
In just the Jacket that he wore - Long buttoned in the Mold Since we - old mornings, Children - played - Divided - by a world -
The Grave yields back her Robberies - The Years, our pilfered Things - Bright Knots of Apparitions Salute us, with their wings -
As we - it were - that perished - Themself - had just remained till we rejoin them - And 'twas they, and not ourself That mourned.
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