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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 :

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.

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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


thee once,

To gaze upon and think of me,
Was ta'en with smiles, — but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee!

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year's in the

There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning; -
Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking !


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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