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When gentle Spring returns again,
And beauty decks the verdant plain,
Dear Annie's feet no more shall tread
The grassy lawn or flowr'y mead.


And when her sisters in their glee
Shall play in guileless revelry,
Oft will the whispering memory crave
A thought for Annie's lonely grave.


And Spring's first flowers will be sought,
And many a grateful tribute brought,
And laid upon that little heap,
Where Annie takes her last long sleep.


And often in that hallowed ground,
Around that dear, dear sacred mound,
Shall tears bedim the grassy sod
And fervent prayers ascend to God.


But then the grave but holds in trust,
Her fair remains--her mortal dust,
Her Soul, through the atoning blood,
Is now in glory with her God.


And clothed in heaven's richest dress,
The spotless robe of holiness
She mingles with the Saintly throng,
And joins them in their holy song.


Then turn away your weeping eyes,
From that lone grave where Annie lies;
And rather let your triumph be,
That she has gained the victory.