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There's necromancy still!
The rathe marsh-marigold
An Ophir makes of yonder oozy mold;
Slim branches erewhile stark and dark and chill,--
The wild wayfaring-tree,--
(Oh, wondrous wizardry!)
Offer a fragrant Hybla where the bee
May drink his greedy fill!
Care must attend whatever path you tread,
Lest your foot crush some fair and fragile head,
Shatter white innocence, leave budding hope
Bruised on the dewy slope.
But yester night
All the wide earth lay barren of delight
That now is splendor-bright before the sight.
And so, my masters, say whatso you will
There's necromancy still!