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I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is Just away!

With a cheery smile and a wave of the

hand,
He has wandered Into an unknown land.

And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you—oh, you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad re-
turn-
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior strength to his country's
foes—

Mild and gentle, as he was brave,,
When the sweetest love of his life he
gave

To the simple things; where the violets

grew
Pure as the eyes they were likened to.

The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed;

When the little brown thrush that

harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-hird;

And he pities as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.

Think of him still as the same, I say;
He is not dead—he is Just—away!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

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