by Oscar Wilde
TREAD lightly, she is near | |
Under the snow, | |
Speak gently, she can hear | |
The daisies grow.
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All her bright golden hair |
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Tarnished with rust, | |
She that was young and fair | |
Fallen to dust.
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Lily-like, white as snow, | |
She hardly knew | |
She was a woman, so | |
Sweetly she grew.
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Coffin-board, heavy stone, | |
Lie on her breast, | |
I vex my heart alone |
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She is at rest.
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Peace, Peace, she cannot hear | |
Lyre or sonnet, | |
All my life’s buried here, | |
Heap earth upon it. |
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