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These golden Buttercups are April's seal, —
Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom,
The dead are in their silent graves,
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
My Mother rests beneath the sod, -
The Autumn is old,
The vintage is ripe,
's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,