Emlyn Dickinson's Herbarium
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That we've immortal place,
Though pyramids decay,
And kingdoms, like the orchard,
Flit russetly away.
The distance that the dead have gone
Does not at first appear;
Their coming back seems possible
For many an ardent year.
And then, that we have followed them
We more than half suspect,
So intimate have we become
With their dear retrospect.

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