Charles Tennyson Turner

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We cannot keep delight--we cannot tell
One tale of steady bliss, unwarped, uncrost,
The timid guest anticipates his farewell,
And will not stay to hear it from his host!
I saw a child upon a summer's day,
A child upon the margin of a pond,
Catch at the boughs that came within his way,
>From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond;
The gale that swayed them from him aye arose,
And seldom sank into such kindly calm
As gave his hand upon the bunch to close;
Which then but left its fragrance on his palm;
For the wind woke anew from its repose,
And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm.

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