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UNDER THE VIOLETS Her hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light; -- Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorchin...
