Then cricket sing thy song, or answer mineThine whispers blame, but mine has naught but praisesIt matters not. — Behold the autumn goes,The Shadow grows,The moments take hold of eternity;Even while we stop to wrangle or repineOur lives are goneLike thinnest mist,Like yon escaping colour in the tree: —Rejoice! rejoice! whilst yet the hours existRejoice or mourn, and let the world swing onUnmoved by Cricket-song of thee or me.
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