A carpet all of faded brown,
On the gray bough a dove that grieves;
Death seemeth here to have his own,
But the spring violet nestle down
Under the leaves.
A brow austere and sad gray eyes,
Looks in which Care her silver weaves;
Hope seemeth tombed no more to rise,
But God He knoweth on what wise
Love for Love's sunshine waiting lies
Under the leaves.
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