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     O God! I cannot bear this doubt
That stifles breath.
     The worst is better than the dread;
Give me but leave to mourn my dead
     Asleep in trust and hope, instead
Of life in death! “

It might have been the evening breeze
     That whispered in the garden trees,
It might have been the sound of seas
     That rose and fell;
But, with her heart, if not her ear,
     The old loved voice she seemed to hear:
“I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,
     For all is well!”


The sweet voice into silence went,
     A silence which was almost pain
As through it rolled the long lament,
     The cadence of the mournful main.
Glancing his written pages o'er,
     The Reader tried his part once more;
Leaving the land of hackmatack and pine
     For Tuscan valleys glad with olive and with vine.

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Tuscan (Mississippi, United States) (1)

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1865 AD (1)
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