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The dead are beneath the sod, And the flowers above them blooming; The birds are singing again, And the bees in the clover humming.
The skies are glory above In the dawn, and the sunset flushes. And the wind a lullaby croon Of a mother, her babe that hushes.
For Earth is a patient Earth, And pardon is quick to win her- But the heart of her child, of Man, Is a quenchless flame within her.
Ina D. Coolbrith
| Submitted Date |
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Wednesday, July 09, 2008 |
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, July 11, 2008 |
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