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"She is dead!" they say; "she is robed for the grave; there are lilies upon her breast; Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest; Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids: they have hidden her hair's gold crown; Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press her down."

"She is dead!" they say to the people, her people, for whom she sung; Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a harp with life-chords strung. And the people hear—but behind their tear they smile as though they heard Another voice, like a Mystery, proclaim another word.

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