SHE
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HEY bear him to his resting-place—In slow procession sweeping by;I follow at a stranger’s space;His kindred they, his sweetheart I.Unchanged my gown of garish dye,Though sable-sad is their attire;But they stand round with griefless eye,Whilst my regret consumes like fire! 187–. [Picture: Sketch of open book with two letters hand-written on left-handpage]
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