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These golden Buttercups are April's seal, –
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,
The dead are in their silent graves,
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
My Mother rests beneath the sod, —
Last night unbound my raven locks,
The useless lock I
To gaze upon and think of me,
The rivers run chill,
ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
Come, let us set our careful breasts,
The world! - it is a wilderness,