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Epitaph
THE first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.
I followed the file of limping days.
I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon’s cup.
But I dared not look on the new moon’s cup.
I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.
The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.
They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.
They weighted me down with a marble urn.
And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.
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