Puslapio vaizdai
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Where the crowd hears the note.
What birds must sing the song,

And then,

To whom that hour of listening men
Could ne'er in life belong!

But "Art for Art !" the Poet said,
""Tis still the Nightingale,

That sings where no men's feet will tread,
And praise and audience fail."

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS.

WHEN Spring comes laughing

By vale and hill,

By wind-flower walking

And daffodil,—

Sing stars of morning,

Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of speedwell,-
And my Love's eyes.

When comes the Summer,

Full-leaved and strong,

And gay birds gossip

The orchard long,—

Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;

Sing red, red roses,—

And my Love's lips.

When Autumn scatters

The leaves again,

And piled sheaves bury

The broad-wheeled wain,

Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers,— And my Love's voice.

But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,

And red fire roaring

And ingle warm,—

Sing first sad going

Of friends that part;

Then sing glad meeting,→

And my Love's heart.

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