As one who gazing at a vista
Of Beauty, sees the clouds close in,
And turns his back in sorrow, hearing
The thunderclouds begin,
So we, whose life was all before us,
Our hearts with sunlight tilled,
Left in the hills our boocks and flowers,
Descended and were killed.
Write on the stones no words of sadness-
Only the gladness due.
That we, who asked the most of living,
Knew how to give it too.
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