If there be grief, then let it be rain,
And this but silver grief for grieving's sake,
If these green woods be dreaming here to wake
Within my hear, if I should rouse again.
But I shall sleep, for where is any death
While in these blue hills slumbrous overhead
I'm rooted like a tree? Though I be dead,
This earth that holds me fast will find me breath.
William Faulkner
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