The Dead by Jones Very
I see them crowd on
crowd they walk the earth
Dry, leafless trees no
Autumn wind laid bare;
And in their nakedness
find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would
winter's rudeness dare;
No sap doth through
their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves
and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living
God have ceased to know,
Who gives the spring
time to th'expectant year;
They mimic life, as if
from him to steal
His glow of health to
paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for
thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming
heart their tongue may speak;
And in their show of
life more dead they live
Than those that to the
earth with many tears they give.
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