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The Mysteries

  Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept,
    Holding my breath;
  There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept
    At the dark mystery of Death.

  Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest,
    Spent with the strife,--
  O mother, let me weep upon thy breast
    At the sad mystery of Life!


William Dean Howells