Unhappy year! that holds the hand of Death
And robs us all of friends whom we hold dear,
I pray the Spring should give you quickened breath
And wash away this mist of somber fear.
I know no words to slow the march of time.
No plea can stay the seasons or the knife.
I know too well the feebleness of rhyme
In capturing the beauty of a life.
And yet I speak,
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