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On the bough of the rose
is the pricking briar,
The delicate lily
must live in the mire;
The hues of the butterfly
go at a breath;
At the end of the road
is the house of death.
Nay, nay, on the briar
is the lovely rose;
In the mire of the river
the lily grows;
The moth is as fair
as the flower of the sod;
At the end of the road
is a door to God.
---Edwin Markham
