Forest sways,
rocks press heavily,
roots grip,
tree-trunk close to tree-trunk.
Wave upon wave breaks, foaming,
deepest cavern provides shelter.
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If of all words of tongue and pen,
The saddest are, "It might have been,"
More sad are these we daily see:
"It is, but hadn't ought to be."
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We pray for one last landing
On the globe that gave us birth;
Let us rest our eyes on fleecy skies
And the cool green hills of Earth.