There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.
The course of my long life hath reached at last in fragile bark over a tempestuous sea the common harbor, where must rendered be account for all the actions of the past.
I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead.
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