  Well! She is dead and gone, God willed it so. Died ere her child was born, Ever to know. Dead! oh, how still and cold! Yet full of rest. She was not very old Still, it was best. Hush, chide her not, not now, Save by a tear, Dropped on that marble brow So smooth and dear. Pity her as she lies There all alone; Tenderly close her eyes, Sorrowful grown. Yes; she has sinned maybe, Willing to fall, Yet now forgive ... ah! see, Death atones all. |
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