From whence hath shun the poison thus they stir,
Too great was not the light from which none fare,
Bestows unto themselves a wreath of leaves burnt;
A wreath of leaves once poison that we shall tear,
That once we tear shall we imbue the blood within,
That once we succumb to ourselves thus we share,
For maimed upon the pillar lone stood below a mound,
Grew to the ways once old free better in young shook,
Engages such the darkness lift; the darkness obeys,
Soon departs and looks back at what had been thereunder,
Begins life anew and continues unto another as once was,
Though to heathens that made no cause for sympathy grown,
Again returned to have knelt by the hand of Death ere shown,
Here, once there was life and now there is none.

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Life, Nature, Poetry, Romance, Works
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