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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
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Isn't it pleasant for the little birds That rise up above, And be nestling together On the one branch, in love? Not so with myself And the darling of my heart-- Every day rises upon us Far, far apart. She is whiter than the lily, Than beauty more fine. She is sweeter than the violin, More radiant than sunshine. But her grace and nobleness Are beyond all that again-- And O God Who art in Heaven, Free me from pain!
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