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Nettie Your mothers locks are growing gray Her form is bent with years - And soon soon I bid farewell to earth Its joys its hopes - its fears.

O think not dear Daughter that the happy birds Will sport in the air forever Or the flowers bright will have no blasts Theair [Their] beautiful buds to sever For the fairest roses earliest fade While the summer winds air [are] sighing And the sweetest birds oft laid low Which high in mid air are flying A hand snaps the chords asunder And then all is gone. Your Mother. Elizabeth. T. Koiner June 30the 1859