  When did such moons upheave? When were such pure dawns born? Yet fly morn into eve, Fly eve into morn. Lily and iris blooms, Blooms of the orchard close, Pass—for she comes, she comes, Your sovereign, the rose. Lark, that is heart of the height, Thrush, that is voice of the vale, Cease, it is nearing, the night Of the nightingale. Hasten great noon that glows, Night, when the swift stars pale, Hasten noon of the rose, Night of the nightingale. |
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