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Haply thou ask'st how many sighs I’ve yielded
Haply thou ask'st how many sighs I’ve yielded;
Count, prithee, thy red garden-roses. My day
Of glory died yesterday: where summer gilded
The fountain and shrine, where the morning ray
Caught long aureate tresses of the faёry
Fresh from her sylvan grot, now, endlessly wave
The reed and thistle, and reёchoes the crow’s cry!
Seest thou not, my friend, everything, save
The sun, is set! —
No maiden carrying a Gothic cage in hand
Dances in mazes thro’ the woods, to let
A dove go winging to greet the radiant flow'ry land.
But, I shall stay for a while my sorrow,
And see what will bring the morrow.
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