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Life tells of flowers ahead,
Fields, quiet streams,—
I reach no violet bed
Save in my dreams.
“Vain are thy words, false friend,
Leave me, I pray,
Sweeter it were to wend
Lonely, my way.”
“Ah no! we will not part,”
Says Life to me;
“Somewhere beyond, Dear Heart,
Death waits for thee.
There I shall leave thee for
He, in his ruth,
Leads thee to meet once more,
Lost Love, and Youth.”
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