WAITING, waiting. 'Tis so far
To the day that is to come:
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A YOUNG fair girl among her flowers,
And, as to blossoms born in May,
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WINGED voice to tell the skies of earth,
Dear earth-born lark, sing on, sing clear,
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You love me, only me. Do I not know? If I were gone your life would be no more
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SMALL current of the wilds afar from men,
Changing and sudden as a baby's mood;
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A SUNNY glade below the bridge;
Clear shadows branching through a stream;
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DEAD, my beloved! This small purple weed
That grows upon thy grave shall have its time
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AH! swallows, is it so?
Did loving lingering summer, whose slow pace
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NAY, tell me not. I will not know.
Because of her my life is bare,
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Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now The voice can reach no blending minors near;
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SO soon asleep! Now must the coming years
Weep ignorantly their loss they cannot know,
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"AND when came I to this town?" did he say!
A question asked for the asking's sake,
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OH God, where hast thou hidden Truth? Oh Truth,
Where is the road to God?
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"OH voice of summer winds among the trees,
What soft news art thou bringing to us here?
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'TWAS yesterday; 'twas long ago:
And for this flaunting grimy street,
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"OH, love me! love me!"
The sea-maid sings ori the pebbly shore—
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BEYOND his silent vault green springs went by, The river flashed along its open way,
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I HAVE not yet I could have loved thee, sweet;
Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou art,
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I.
YOU love me, only me. Do I not know?
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ONCE a sea-nymph loved a boy: He and she they loved so well.
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WHAT is it that is dead?
Somewhere there is a grave, and something lies
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VIATOR loquitur
"Royal in purple and gold and red,
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"NEWS to the king, good news for all," The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
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THE rose said "Let but this long rain be past,
And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun
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HAD I a heart till that day?
Who knows, who knows?
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TELL thee truth, sweet; no. Truth is cross and sad and cold:
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YOUNG May sat fainting and chill, And neither could live nor die;
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MILES and miles of here and there Our eager river forced its way,
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The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,
Is longer sweet than roses of red June;
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The thrush that, yet alone, pipes for his mate Knows she will come in time to build the nest,
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