Page:Summer on the lakes, in 1843.djvu/110

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 * “Death
 * Opens her sweet white arms, and whispers Peace;
 * Come, say thy sorrows in this bosom! This
 * Will never close against thee, and my heart,
 * Though cold, cannot be colder much than man's.”
 * }
 * Will never close against thee, and my heart,
 * Though cold, cannot be colder much than man's.”
 * }
 * }
 * }
 * }