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101

A DIRGE.

Poet! lonely is thy bed,And the turf is overhead,— Cold earth is thy cover;But thy heart hath found release,And it slumbers full of peace'Neath the rustle of green trees,And the warm hum of the bees Mid the drowsy clover;Through thy chamber still as deathA smooth gurgle wandereth,As the blue stream murmureth To the blue sky over.
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