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It is the afterglow. The dying sun
Went down behind yon distant purple hill
Where sleep the quiet dead, while breezes still
A solemn requiem chant ere day be done.
Full o'er the city yet, in beauty rare,
Shine rosy beams that touch the countless spires,
And play upon the rushing river there,
Illume the leaden sky with crimson fires
More splendid far than when at noontide hour
The sun was in the zenith of his power.


O dead and gone--is this the afterglow!
From hidden moss-grown graves behind yon hill
A soft effulgence seemeth yet to flow--
A subtle tie that binds us closer still,
And kindles in our spirits' clouded skies
A fire of hope that never, never dies:
Bright picture unto which souls trouble-tossed
Have turned, in holy contemplation lost,
Forgetting earth's wild turmoil, hate, and strife,
To dream a dream of love's unending life.