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"No more for my mother sighing,

Feasting daintily, then dying;

I by too much food was slain.

And she buried me with weeping

Near her house, that she, while sleeping,

Me in dreams might see again."

On what smooth Elysian sward does this little Grecian hare sport with his English cousins? Fed, perchance, by Persephone's white hand, they gambol for evermore by the deep waters of Oblivion; and the gray ghosts, flitting by, smile with sad eyes upon the nimble creatures who, shadows in shadowland, yet bear in every limb rich memories of woodland glade, and of the dear, life-giving soil of earth.