[4:30]
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Mark how our shadow, Mark Movits mom frere
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One small darkness encloses
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How gold and purple that shovel there
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To rags and rubbish disposes
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Charon beckons from tumultuous waves
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Then trice this ancient digger of graves
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For thee ne'er grapeskin shall glister
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Wherefore my Movits come help me to raise
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A gravestone over our sister
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Even desirous and modest adobe
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Under the sighing branches
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Where time and death, a marriage forebode
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Twixt beauty and ugliness ashes
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To thee ne'er jealousy findeth her way
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Nor happiness footstep, swift to stray
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Flitteth amid these barrows
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E'en enmity armed, as thou seest this day
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Piously breaketh her arrow
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The little bell echoes the great bells groan
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Robed in the door the precentor
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Noisome with quiristers prayerful moan
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Blesses those, who enter
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The way to this templed city of tombs
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Climbs amid roses yellowing blooms
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Fragments of mouldering biers
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Till black-clad each mourner,
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His station assumes
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Bows there deeply in tears
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Epistle No. 81
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Candlemass |