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Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes, Have long been numbered with the dead?

But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright— No check, no soil had either known; The angel natures of yon sky Will only be to thee thine own. Thou knew'st no rainbow-hopes that weep Themselves away to deeper shade; Nor Love, whose very happiness Should make the weakening heart afraid.

The green leaves e'en in spring they fall, The tears the stars at midnight weep, The dewy wild-flowers—such as these Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.