Page:Fiddler's Farewell.djvu/29

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I'll be your Epitaph

Over your dear dead heart I'll lift
As blithely as a bough,
Saying, "Here lies the cruel song,
Cruelly quiet now."

I'll say, "Here lies the lying sword,
Still dripping with my truth;
Here lies the woven sheath I made,
Embroidered with my youth."

I'll sing, "Here lies, here lies, here lies—"
Ah, rust in peace below!
Passers will wonder at my words,
But your dark dust will know.

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