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The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled-
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

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I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,

The lark's loud song is in my, ear,
And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'ning for the words You never more will speak.

'T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your restFor I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,' But, oh! they love the better still,"

The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride:

There's nothin' left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

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When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone:

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