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PASSING AWAY.
197
It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play,
And on brighter things than these—
"Passing away."
It is written on the brow
Where the spirit's ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now—
"Passing away."
It is written on the heart—
Alas! that there decay
Should claim from love a part—
"Passing away."
Friends! friends!—oh! shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?
