Our Own

A poem by James Whitcomb Riley

They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;
We gossip, knee-by-knee;
They tell us all that they have planned -
Of all their joys to be, -
And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,
All desolate we cry
Across wide waves of voiceless graves -
Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!

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