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MY JOURNAL.

Make the charred logs burn brighter;
I will show you, by their blaze,
The half-forgotten record

Of bygone things and days.

Bring here the ancient volume;
The clasp is old and worn,
The gold is dim and tarnished,
And the faded leaves are torn.

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Here, where still waiting, dreaming,
For some ideal Life,

The

young heart all unconscious

Had entered on the strife.

109

See how this page is blotted:

What, could those tears be mine? How coolly I can read you

Each blurred and trembling line.

Now I can reason calmly,

And, looking back again,
Can see divinest meaning
Threading each separate pain.

Here strong resolve - how broken;
Rash hope, and foolish fear,
And prayers which God in pity
Refused to grant or hear.

Nay, I will turn the pages

To where the tale is told

Of how a dawn diviner

Flushed the dark clouds with gold.

And see, that light has gilded
The story nor shall set;
And, though in mist and shadow,
You know I see it yet.

Here well, it does not matter,

--

I promised to read all;

I know not why I falter,

Or why my tears should fall.

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I read

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my voice is failing,

But you can understand

How the heart beat that guided
This weak and trembling hand.

Pass over that long struggle,
Read where the comfort came,
Where the first time is written
Within the book your name.

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Give me your hand what was it
We were talking of before?

III

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