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  • the moving sun-shapes on the spray,
    the sparkles where the brook was flowing,
    pink faces, plightings, moonlit may,—
    these were the things we wished would stay;
    but they were going.

    seasons of blankness as of snow,
    the silent bleed of a world decaying,
    the moan of multitudes in woe,—
    these were the things we wished would go;
    but they were staying.

    thomas hardy