run

what ever distracts man from his sadness,
is what distracts him from his all joys—
’cause, who ever forgets all he loves,
and, who’ll live to remember what he lost?
but, that they are the same—we’ll never say;
even teary-eyed, pride is a strength:
o what mother, where, holding her own,
knows when she’ll let him go—
never is a thought so far from reach
as when it bids you not to feel;
chase the sun or long at the moon,
both will bring you light, most bright.
and wiser words wept from weary years
are all the same unless you run—

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