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Only, one little sight, one plant,
Woods have in May, that starts up green
Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,
That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small: But I, - whene'er the leaf grows there,
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.
FEAR death ?- to feel the fog, in my throat,
The mist in my face,
I am nearing the place,
The post of the foe;
Yet the strong man must go :
And the barriers fall,
The reward of it all.
The best and the last !
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Of pain, darkness, and cold.
The black minute 's at end,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Then a light, then thy breast,
And with God be the rest !