EXPERIENCE.
Bring none of your sorrowful tales to me, Nor talk of your falling tears;My heart is singing a song of glee In the flush of my girlish years.
A funeral train goes by, you say, With its sable plumes all curled;Do close the door, as it comes this way: I would not look out for the world.
I have seen but once a cold, dead face, With never a pulse nor breath—The graveyard must be a horrible place, With nothing but bones and death.
Pray turn that beggar outside of the gate, And teach him to know his place,It makes me shiver to think of the great, Deep scar on his pallid face.
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