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A Prayer
by Sara Teasdale

When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things

And I tried to take their stings
With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul's full depth and length,

Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
Loving life for its own sake.