36
To look on man, and deem it strange
That he on things of earth should brood,
When all the thronged and busy range
To her was solitude,—
O, this was bitterness! Death came and pressed
Her wearied lids, and brought the sick heart rest.
That he on things of earth should brood,
When all the thronged and busy range
To her was solitude,—
O, this was bitterness! Death came and pressed
Her wearied lids, and brought the sick heart rest.
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