No vulture is here, hardly a hawk, Could long wings or great eyes fly Under this low-lidded soft sky? On the wide heather the curlew`s whistle Dies of its echo, it has no room Under the low lid of this tomb. But one to whom mind and imagination Sometimes used to seem burdensome Is glad to lie down awhile in the tomb. Among stones and quietness The mind dissolves without a sound, The flesh drops into the ground.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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