  My heart is like a shady grove That harbors, for a June, My thoughts, like song-birds mad with love Under the moon. On all the windy boughs they sit And in the blowing grass— But one bird silently enters it, And sings, alas! Then all the rest grow sad and still That made a happy noise: There is no sound on all the hill But that one voice, Faint with the memories in his breast— It is the thought of you— And when it ceases, all the rest |
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