The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere :: :: University of Virginia Library

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Ye village poor, whose pitying fingers strew
Those kind, cold sprays of rosemary and rue;
And brush light snows from every tombstone dun,
While Evening's orange gleams in sequence run

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From Pine to Pine—drop here a spray or or two;
Though He below was never known to you:
And bid the Stranger spare the grave of one
Who said of him no evil, and thought none.