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5H THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own :
But there I lay thee in thy grave — And now I am alone !
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me, And I perhaps may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee : Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light, ne'er seen before, As Fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore. |
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O SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS COLD
O
SAY not that my heart is cold To aught that once could warm it,— That Nature's form, so dear of old, No more has power to charm it; Or that the ungenerous world can chill
One glow of fond emotion For those who made it dearer still, And shared my wild devotion.
Still oft those solemn scenes I view,
In rapt and dreamy sadness,— Oft look on those who loved them too
With Fancy's idle gladness. Again I longed to view the light
In Nature's features glowing, Again to tread the mountain's height^
And taste the soul's o'erflowing. |
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