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Excerpt:
I may not daily go and scatter
Flowers
Where you are sleeping neath the sun and dew—
But if one lies in pain through weary
Hours,
I send the flowers there, dear
Heart, for you.
Life claims our best; you would not
have me waste
A single day in selfish, idle woe;
I fancy that I hear you bid me haste
Lest I should sadly falter as I go.
Martha Snell Nicholson