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The place is purified with hope, The hope that is of prayer; And human love, and heavenward thought, And pious faith, are there. The wild flowers spring amid the grass; And many a stone appears, Carved by affection's memory, Wet with affection's tears.

The golden chord which binds us all Is loosed, not rent in twain; And love, and hope, and fear, unite To bring the past again. But this grave is so desolate, With no remembering stone, No fellow-graves for sympathy— 'Tis utterly alone.