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Sonnet

(For your dead wife, her friend)
2 November, 1877

- 'On the forgotten woods when sombre winter passes
You complain, lonely threshold's prisoner,
That this double sepulchre which is to be our pride
Alone with the lack of great posies is loaded.
Without hearing Midnight cast its vain number,
A vigil exalts you to continue awake
Until in the arms of the old armchair

The last fireglow has illumined my Shade.
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