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I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.
To wander now is my abode;
To rest, -- to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.
I sing to use the waiting,
My bonnet but to tie,
And shut the door unto my house;
No more to do have I,

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