Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Pages of Poetry
Oh tell me not of the trouble Of those that are dead and are gone, For surely, most surely, thrice double Are the cares that I. Have of my own.
Oh I tell me not of the morrow Or What is then to be done, Sufficient to each day is its sorrow, To man born under the sun.
Oh tell me not of the sorrow Of those that are dead and are gone, For he's a d d fool that Will borrow Trouble from some other one.
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