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Dying Hymn.
by Alfred Castner KingThe hour-glass speeds its final sands,
In splendor sinks the golden sun,
So men must yield to death's demands
When human life its course has run.
We view the ruins of the past,
We stand surrounded by decay,
Our transient hours are speeding fast
And, e'er we think, have passed away.
Weep not, nor mourn with idle tear
That hour, inevitable and sure;
We move, our sojourn finished here,
To nobler realms which shall endure.