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Mark how our shadow, |
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Mark Movits, mon frere |
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One small darkness encloses |
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How gold and purple that shovel there |
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To rags and rubbish disposes |
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Charon beckons from tumultuous waves |
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Then trice this ancient digger of graves |
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For thee ne'er grapeskin shall glister |
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Wherefore my |
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Movits come help me to raise |
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A gravestone over our sister |
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Even desirous and modest abode |
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Under the sighing branches |
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Where time and death, a marriage forebode |
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Twixt beauty and ugliness ashes |
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To thee ne'er jealousy findeth her way |
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Nor happiness footstep, swift to stray |
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Flitteth amid these barrows |
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E'en enmity armed, as thou seest this day |
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Piously breaketh her arrow |
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The little bell echoes the great bells groan |
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Robed in the door the precentor |
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Noisome with quirsters prayerful moan |
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Blesses those who enter |
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The way to this templed city of tombs |
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Climbs amid roses yellowing blooms |
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Fragments of mouldering biers |
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Till black-clad each mourner his station assumes |
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Bows there deeply in tears |