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O 'tis a fearful thing to be no more;
Or if to be, to wander after death;
To walk as Spirits do, in Brakes all day;
And when the darkness comes
to glide in paths
That lead to graves: and in the silent Vault,
Where lyes your own pale shrowd,
to hover o'er it,
Striving to enter your forbidden Corps;
And often, often, vainly breathe your Ghost
Into your lifeless lips.