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I wage not any feud with Death    For changes wrought on form and face;    No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith.

Eternal process moving on,    From state to state the spirit walks;    And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.

Nor blame I Death, because he bare    The use of virtue out of earth:    I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.

For this alone on Death I wreak    The wrath that garners in my heart;    He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXXII

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