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In falling Timbers buried
There breathed a Man
Outside—the spades—were plying
The Lungs—within

Could He—know—they sought Him
Could They—know—He breathed
Horrid Sand Partition
Neither—could be heard

Never slacked the Diggers
But when Spades had done
Oh, Reward of Anguish
It was dying—Then

Many Things—are fruitless
'Tis a Baffling Earth
But there is no Gratitude
Like the Grace—of Death