  Here was a happy flower, Born in sun and shower, In the meadow; Sorrow was her dower, And shadow. Bid the gentle mole Dig his deepest hole, For her rest; Sleep has charmed her soul, Sleep is best. Bid the vervain spire Light the funeral fire, And the yarrow Build a shady choir, For the sparrow. “Everything must die, She is dead,” Now in exequy, All is said.
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