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ONE'S OWN.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

BLUE, wistful eyes, and hair

Brown-golden, and lips of rose?

And she is dead? Why, there

Are others, I suppose,

As fair: 't is a common thing

(Why should you grieve for the past?)

To sleep . . . i' the dust, at last!

But . . . she was mine, you see.

Under the moon alone

I dream of a grave (ah, me!)

With its carven cross of stone . . .

There are others, you say, as sweet?

But I miss the eyes that sleep

Where the low dark woodbines creep.

And the dawn's wet wreath of pearl,

And the sunset's crown of gold,

Bring the autumn leaves that whirl

I' the bitter wind . . . Too cold

Are the little hands, and the brow

To earth's last pillow prest . . .

Does she wake in the grave, or - rest?

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