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REEN be the turf above thee,
 * Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,
 * Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying,
 * From eyes unused to weep,

And long, where thou art lying,
 * Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
 * Like thine, are laid in earth,

There should a wreath be woven
 * To tell the world their worth;

And I who woke each morrow
 * To clasp thy hand in mine,