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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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