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Where I have lost, I softer tread—
I sow sweet flower from garden bed—
I pause above that vanished head
         And mourn.
 
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word—
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
         Though stone!
 
When I have lost, you’ll know by this—
A Bonnet black—A dusk surplice—
A little tremor in my voice
         Like this!
 
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
         Next Bliss!

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