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[301]

The Friend's burial.

my thoughts are all in yonder town,
     Where, wept by many tears,
To-day my mother's friend lays down
     The burden of her years.

True as in life, no poor disguise
     Of death with her is seen,
And on her simple casket lies
     No wreath of bloom and green.

Oh, not for her the florist's art,
     The mocking weeds of woe;
Dear memories in each mourner's heart
     Like heaven's white lilies blow.

And all about the softening air
     Of new-born sweetness tells,
And the ungathered May-flowers wear
     The tints of ocean shells.

The old, assuring miracle
     Is fresh as heretofore;
And earth takes up its parable
     Of life from death once more.

Here organ-swell and church-bell toll
     Methinks but discord were;
The prayerful silence of the soul
     Is best befitting her.

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