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A shudder runs across
The water rippling by;
A tremor through the leaves,
And in the heart a sigh.

 

In flush of summertide,
When every fear is dumb,
When all the air is charmed--
How has the sadness come?

 

Ah, Death is in the land--
His kingdom comes apace;
And many a messenger
Is sent before his face.

 

Our hearts arise in might
To strive with giant forms;
The old ancestral foes
That walk in night and storms.

 

But there are nameless elves
That haunt the brightest hour,
Flit on the sunbeam's edge
And lurk in every flower.

 

Before their lances keen
Our blossom-pleasures shrink;
They brush the foam away
From every cup we drink.

 

But when he comes, his steps
Are silent in the snow;
His touch is soft and light,
His voice is wonderous low.

 

One greeting face to face
And all the dread is o'er:
We shall not flee nor turn,
Nor tremble any more.