Thursday, August 16, 2007



Strew on her roses,roses,
And never a spray of yew.
In quiet she reposes;
Ah! would that I did too.
Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smile of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning,turning,
In mazes of heat and sound;
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabind and ample spirit,
It flutterd and faild for breath;
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.

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