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Deprecation

Low, I listen in my grave
For the silence soon to be
When a slow-receding wave,
Hushed, is memory.


Now the falling of a tear
Or the breathing half-suppressed
Of a sigh, re-echoed here,
Holds me from my rest.


O, ye breakers of the past
From the never-resting deep,
On the coast of slumber cast,
Cease, and let me sleep.

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