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496 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me !
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand ; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas 1 shall mourn for me ! |
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