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Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear

The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when they sprung

Below the range of stepping-stones,
Or those three chestnuts near, that

hung
In masses thick with milky cones.

In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cup I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest -- gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,

His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :

My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss

Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life,

But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,

That we may die the self-same day.

But, Alice, what an hour was that,

When, after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat

Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue;

And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,

But angled in the higher pool.

A love-song I had somewhere read,

An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head

From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long,

With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song,

That went and came a thousand times.

Have I not found a happy earth?
I least should breathe a thought of

pain.
Would God renew me from my birth

I'd almost live my life again,

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood

I watch'd the little circles die;

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