| Subject: |
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A Poem, Death by by Thomas Hood |
| Name: |
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Anna |
| Date Posted: |
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Oct 2, 06 - 1:36 PM |
| IP Address: |
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81.156.114.99 |
| Message: |
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It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapped in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this,--but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men. |
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