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478 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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But neither echoing horn, Nor thrush upon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn,
Hymning in air, Nor harper's lay divine, E'er witched this heart of mine, Like that sweet voice of thine,
That ev'ning there.
And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name, I could not answer, though, As luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same Hearing no answering sound, You glanced in doubt around, With timid look, and found
It was not he; Turning away your head, And blushing rosy red, Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.
The swan upon the lake, The wild rose in the brake, The golden clouds that make
The west their throne, The wild ash by the stream, The full moon's silver beam, The ev'ning star's soft gleam,
Shining alone; |
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