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Show II There comes a day, an hour, a circumstance When each thing done will not be done again, The last to see or feel, no further chance, And only one last sever-sharpened pain. I think of other days when bits of song Were flung like coppers in a fountain. Words Were spent like chaff. Our days, forever-long, Are gone as wind, as transient-flown as birds. The words you said were old, but bright as mint, A thousand nights, a million times, my tongue Would give them back to you. There was no hint, No dark suspicion stirred, no banner flung, No blazing sword from skies, no trumpet blast To warn me that this time would be the last. |