Exile |
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I chose the place where I would rest When death should come to claim me, With the red-rose roots to wrap my breast And a quiet stone to name me.
But I am laid on a northern steep With the roaring tides below me, And only the frosts to bind my sleep, And only the winds to know me.
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[In many English churches before the Reformation there was kept a little lamp continually burning, called the Lamp of Poor Souls. People were reminded thereby to pray for the souls of those dead whose kinsfolk were too poor to pay for prayers and masses.]
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