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All is so dark since they have shut my eyes; I think it cruel in them to do that— Shut out the light of day and every chance That I could ever have of seeing Grace. I cannot move a muscle, and I try, And strive to part my lips to say some word; But all in vain; the mind has lost control Over the body's null machinery.

I wonder if they yet will bury me, Thinking me dead? To wake up in the grave, And hear a wagon rumbling overhead, Or a chance footstep passing near the spot, And then cry out and never get reply; But hear the footstep vanish far away, And know the cold mould smothers up all cries, And is above, beneath, and round me, Is bitter thought. To lie back then and die, Suffocating slowly while I tear my hair, Makes me most wild to think of.

Hark! 'tis night. The hour is borne distinctly by the wind. My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side, And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere, She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.