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These golden Buttercups are April's seal,-
The Daisy stars her constellations be:

These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!

Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom,

Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:

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A wight once made a dial of their bloom,
So may thy life be measur'd out by flow'rs!


THE dead are in their silent graves,

And the dew is cold above,

And the living weep and sigh,

Over dust that once was love.

Once I only wept the dead,

But now the living cause my pain:

How couldst thou steal me from my tears,

To leave me to my tears again?

My Mother rests beneath the sod,

Her rest is calm and very deep :
I wish'd that she could see our loves,
But now I gladden in her sleep.

Last night unbound my raven locks,

The morning saw them turn'd to gray,
Once they were black and well belov'd,

But thou art chang'd, — and so are they!

The useless lock I gave thee once,

To gaze upon and think of me,

Was ta'en with smiles, but this was torn

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In sorrow that I send to thee!

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COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,

That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,—
True honour's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water'd since the world was born.

The world! - it is a wilderness,

Where tears are hung on every tree;

For thus my gloomy phantasy

Makes all things weep with me!

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