  One cricket left, of summer's choir. One glow-worm, flashing life's last fire. One frog with leathern croak Beneath the oak,— And the pool stands leaden Where November twilights deaden Day's unspent desire. One star in heaven—East or West. One wind—a gypsy seeking rest. One prayer within my heart— For all who part Upon Death's dark portal, With no hope of an immortal Morrow for life's quest. |
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