Tod, dir zum Raube
Fiel eine Welt,
Die du dem Staube
Wieder gesellt.

Hoffen und Sehnen,
Schimmerndes Los,
Wunden und Thränen
Decket das Moos.

Wer kann ermessen,
Was sie erstrebt?
Schon ward´s vergessen,
Daß sie gelebt.

Julius Karl Reinhold Sturm
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