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Might be her last; her own mild smile Parted her placid lips in death. Her grave is under southern skies; Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. Oh! nothing but a pale spring wreath Would fade o'er her who lies beneath! I gave her prayers—I gave her tears— I staid awhile beside her grave; Then led by Hope, and led by Love, Again I cut the azure wave. What have I more to say, my life! But just to pray one smile of thine, Telling I have not loved in vain— That thou dost join these hopes of mine? Yes, smile, sweet love! our life will be   As radiant as a fairy tale!