Louis Mulcahy The Master In melancholia a grey unfeeling sun declines, soft shadows trace the land of memories as they fade. Drab, wettest May yet written. It started well. We talked the roads. Now he lies as silent as the sadly dying day. He who stretched the hours to years prepares to slip into the night; ship anchor, drift out towards a far off beckoning shore with cargo of such riches, precious gems of lifetime’s mining, that he is sure of welcome to match our aching loss.
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