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Is it a scene we view of our own end,
In a shady glade the sun our friend,
Or yet a darkness blinding light,
From our wasted views in empty sight.
'Tis always that we die alone,
With rotting flesh and crumpling bone,
That our wasted minds cannot think,
To describe the landscape where we sink.
We the souls that lived on Earth,
Seem not as souls to be of worth,
Lest we a spirit do invent,
And match it with our inner sense,
For having lived how can we die,
But yet we do; both you and I.
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