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The dying house.

She is dead; her house is dying;
Round its long-deserted door,
From the hillside and the moor,
Swell the autumn breezes sighing.
Closer to its windows press
Pine-tree boughs in mute caress;
Wind-sown seeds in silence come,
Root, and grow, and bud, and bloom;
Year by year, kind Nature's grace
Wraps and shields her dwelling-place.
She who loved all things that grew,
Talked with every bird that flew,
Brought each creature to her feet
With persuasive accents sweet,--
Now her voice is hushed and gone,
Yet the birds and bees keep on.

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