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Beside the weathered garden gate
Down at the old home place,
A withered wildflower
Lies peaceful and still,
Too faded, too weak to bare its face.

The intrepid spirit of fragrant youth
Fell languid beneath the sun;
A pale and weary traveler,
Whose race was briefly run.

The barren earth is warm at last —
A berth for dying alone.
The barren earth is warm at last,
Where once, there was a home.