Take them o`death And bear away Whatever thou canst Call thine own Thine imagine stamped Upon this clay Doth give thee that But that alone Take tem o`great eternity Our little life is but a gust That bends the brenches of thy tree And trails it`s blossoms in the dust Take them o`grave and let them lie Folden upon thy narrow shelves As garments by the soul laid by And precious only to ourselves
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