  As one who, leaning on the wall, once drew Thick blossoms down, and hearkened to the hum Of heavy bees slow rounding the wet plum, And heard across the fields the patient coo Of restless birds bewildered with the dew. As one whose thoughts were mad in painful May, With melancholy eyes turned toward her love, And toward the troubled earth whereunder throve The chilly rye and coming hawthorn spray— With one lean, pacing hound, for company.
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