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Boast not thy victory, Death! It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, That slumber, the snow beneath.

It is but as a Tyrant's reign O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still: But the fiery thought, and the lofty will, Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above! And thus with the root whence affection springs, Tho' buried, it is not of mortal things— Thou art the victor, Love!