THE FOUNT

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O quiring voices of the sleepless springs, O night of beauty, calm and odorous, O bird of Thrace, that ever ceaseless sings The passion of thy music amorous,
My heart is but a spring that, with its prayer, Is choric through an April plenilune; My music but a rapture in the air, A nightingale loud-voiced in leafy June.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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