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Rampolli - A Year's Diary of an Old Soul

Home - George MacDonald - Rampolli - A Year's Diary of an Old Soul

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THE GRAVE.

The grave is deep and soundless,

  Its brink is ghastly lone; With veil all dark and boundless

  It hides a land unknown.

The nightingale's sweet closes

  Down there come not at all; And friendship's withered roses

  On the mossy hillock fall.

Their hands young brides forsaken

  Wring bleeding there in vain; The cries of orphans waken

  No answer to their pain.

Yet nowhere else for mortals

  Dwells their implored repose; Through none but those dark portals

  Home to his rest man goes.

The poor heart, here for ever

  By storm on storm beat sore, Its true peace gaineth never

  But where it beats no more.



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