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"O you I sing, whom towns immure,
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure ; -
To you across whose aching sight

Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.

And d you, O Sad, who still endure
Some wound that only Time can cure, -
you, in watches of the night,-

To you I sing!

But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure ; -

To you, with bird-like glances bright,

Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight; O English Girl, divine, demure,

To you I sing!!

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