Normale Version: Duty
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Guest after guest departs! the heart that erst
Seemed a bright portal all in garlands dressed,
To which the rosy-crowned and joyous pressed,
Findeth ere long that each a thorn had nursed

Whith which to pierce the too unwary breast.
Vainly we fold a mantle o’er each guest
Willing to bide the thorn, if through it may
A nobler gladness in the soul arise.

Vainly we hope their footsteps to delay,
They leave the pang and one by one depart,
Till cold and desolate the portal lies.

Yet not all desolate – a calm pale face
Looks in, then enters the despoiled heart,
And all is hushed and still, for Duty fills the place.