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Death Will Come.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm, to rest; Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Roberta