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 The grave of beauty is its cradle too.

And new is old, and old is ever new,

Little grows great, and great grows small again,

And I to-day—perchance to-morrow You!

What long-dead face makes here the grass so green?

On what earth-buried bosom do we lean?

Ah! love, when we in turn are grass and flowers,

By what kind eyes to come shall we be seen?

Like us, will they have pity on the dead,

Blessing the green that hides love's sleeping head,

And, meanwhile, like such ancient folk as we,

Wine-drench the meadow to a tulip-bed?

O love, how green the world, how blue the sky!

And we are living—living—you and I!

Ah, when the sun shines and our love is near,

'Tis good to live, and very hard to die.