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Unto one who lies at rest

 Unto one who lies at rest 
'Neath the sunset, in the West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay, Sending wandering perfumes Out as guide to show the way, All she knew, to all was kind; None so humble or so small That she did not seek and find Silent friendship from them all.
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves, Dappld like the adder's skin, Fungus huts with ivory eaves Which the fairies harbor in, Regiments of fronded ferns, Golden-rod and asters frail, Every flaming leaf that burns Red against the autumn pale, Every pink-cupped wayside rose,-- All to her were dear and known; But above them all she chose Clover-blossoms for her own.
So they laid her to her rest In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, Clover-blossoms on her breast.

by Helen Hunt Jackson
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