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Poem by Thomas Hood
Sonnet It is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapped in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this,--but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.
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