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Your body against mine brings a torment even into my words. Oh, your weeping's the sound of my own heart dying. Rachel, you are more wonderful than life. I love you! I feel as if I must die when you go away. Crowds, streets, buildings all empty outlines. Empty before you came, emptier when you have gone." He paused. His thought whispered: "I'll remember things I say. I mustn't say too much.
We hide the seed deep in the ground And watch the closing furrow, When, lo! the field's already white, Not waiting for the morrow. "The sower and the reaper both May now rejoice together, For what they sow and gather in Is fruit that lives forever. The saint rejoices evermore, E'en in the midst of sorrow; He knows the weeping's but a night, Joy cometh on the morrow." Man was made to labor.
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