Sunday Sonnet

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Your life is like a little winter's day 
Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon ; 
You have just come — why will you go away, 
Making an evening of what should be noon. 
Your life is like a little flute complaining 
A long way off, beyond the willow trees : 
A long way off, and nothing left remaining 
But memory of a music on the breeze. 

Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking 
Wept in a dream before a man's awaking, 
A Call with only shadows to attend : 
A Benediction whispered and belated 
Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated, 
A consecrated silence at the end. 

Hilaire Belloc

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