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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