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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 bu*toned 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