  TO MISS DORA CURTIS April with her fleet, sweet, Silver rain, and sun-rays, Cometh, and her feet beat Lightly, on the lawn. Softly, for her sake, break Flowering the wet boughs; By the brimming lake, wake Lilies every dawn. Broken on the stream, gleam Rays, to drown where weeds wave; Shining with her dream, seem April's eyes bedewed. Shakes a silver chain, rain Chiming with her music; Life, that long hath lain slain Riseth up renewed. |
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