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by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

   The leaf that ripens only in the sun
   Is dull and shrivelled ere its race is run.
   The leaf that makes a carnival of death
   Must tremble first before the north wind’s breath.

   The life that neither grief nor burden knows
   Is dwarfed in sympathy before its close.
   The life that grows majestic with the years
   Must taste the bitter tonic found in tears.


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