Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, as fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
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Here Poesy and Love come not—
It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow, and beauty—nature—love
Redeem man’s common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—
Give loveliness to death.
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