With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
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TO-NIGHT the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day;
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NIGHTINGALES warbled without,
Within was weeping for thee:
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O, well for him whose will is strong!
He suffers, but he will not suffer long;
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NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
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Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
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BANNER of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!
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Gigantic daughter of the West,
We drink to thee across the flood,
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We move, the wheel must always move,
Nor always on the plain,
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O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
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Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
So loud with voices of the birds,
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The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
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Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?
Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy.
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Dip down upon the northern shore
O sweet new-year delaying long;
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Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
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I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
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Wheer 'asta beän saw long and meä liggin' 'ere aloän?
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, Doctor's abeän an' agoän;
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Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
And howlest, issuing out of night,
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The path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
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"So careful of the type?" but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
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To-night the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day:
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You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
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How fares it with the happy dead?
For here the man is more and more;
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Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
Th
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Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang)
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Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
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With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
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Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
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'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
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Old warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
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