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Updated: June 3, 2025
'tis Death, not sleep, That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep. No balmy breath comes forth From the slight-parted mouth; Nor heaves the little breast, In its unyielding rest; Dead fingers clasp Flowers in unconscious grasp; Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother! 'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other.
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