SHE AT HIS FUNERAL

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They bear him to his resting-place—
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger’s space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

187–.

Sketch of open book with two letters hand-written on left-hand page

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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