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by William Cullen Bryant


Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine

Too brightly to shine long; another Spring

Shall deck her for men's eyes- but not for thine-

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.

The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,

And the vexed ore no mineral of power;

And they who love thee wait in anxious grief

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.

Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come

Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee,

As light winds wandering through groves of bloom

Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.

Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain;

And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. - -