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have wept with the beast, The bird, the blossoming flower, The hundred years of the oak. Or the insect born for an hour,

Saying with my soul’s right: Ah, woe for your body’s pain! Therein you must die, and pass Into dust, without hope of gain.

From the weary feet’s toiling to spring To oblivion, and never to know That the horrible pains of the flesh You have left in the body below;

That He leaves you an heirdom of pain. And forgets you when dropped from His hand That had mercy for us; you would die In your grief, could you understand.