The great writers, one piece at a time.
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The last night that she lived, It was a common night, Except the dying; this to us Made nature different.
We noticed smallest things, -- Things overlooked before, By this great light upon our minds Italicized, as 't were.
That others could exist While she must finish quite, A jealousy for her arose So nearly infinite.
We waited while she passed; It was a narrow time, Too jostled were our souls to speak, At length the notice came.
She mentioned, and forgot; Then lightly as a reed Bent to the water, shivered scarce, Consented, and was dead.
And we, we placed the hair, And drew the head erect; And then an awful leisure was, Our faith to regulate.