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Written by: Ralph Waldo Emerson | Biography
 COME away, come away, death, 
 And in sad cypres let me be laid; 
Fly away, fly away, breath; 
 I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 O prepare it! 
My part of death, no one so true 
 Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 On my black coffin let there be strown; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown: 
A thousand thousand sighs to save, 
 Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave 
 To weep there!