Softly rises the gray swallow,
Through the misty morning glow;
The bells sound their toll so slow,
Muted tones sweet and mellow.

The voice of the lark in the meadow
Seems strangely subdued and low;
The early breeze has ceased to blow,
Babbling brook has hushed its flow.

Dreary morning arrives on tip toe,
One we hoped would never show;
For this is the day that one must go,
As we knew would be so, long ago.

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