Mild is the Parting Year

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Mild is the parting year, and sweet
 The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
 And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,
 But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
 The tear that would have soothed it all.

© Heather Fuller