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 'Tis a great fuss, all this of Thee and Me,

Important folk are we—to Thee and Me;

Yet what if we mean nothing after all,

And what if Heaven cares nought—for Thee and Me?

All those who in their graves unheeded lie

Were just as pompous once as You and I,

Complacent spake their little arrogant names,

And wagged their heads, and never thought to die.

A beauty sleeps beneath yon quiet grass

Who dreamed her face the world might not surpass,

Strength is her neighbour, but he boasts no more,—

And over them the wind cries out, "Alas!"

Would you seek beauty, seek it underground;

Would you find strength—the strong are underground;

And would you next year seek my love and me,

Who knows but you must seek us—underground?