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The Breeze
#1
The Breeze

When from my dreary home I first moved on
After my friend was in her grave-clothes dressed,
A dim despondence on my spirit pressed
As all my pleasant days were come and gone!
Strange whispers parted from the entombing clay,
The thin air murmured, each dumb object spake,
Bidding my overwhelméd bosom ache;
Oft did I look to heaven, but could not pray.
"How shall I leave thee, quiet scene?" said I,
"How leave the passing breeze that loves to sweep
The holy sod where my due footsteps creep?"
"The passing breeze? It was she! Thy friend passed by!"
But the time came; the passing breeze I left;
"Farewell," I sighed; and seemed of all bereft.
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