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The Poet’s Song

       
    The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
        He pass’d by the town and out of the street;
    A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
        And waves of shadow went over the wheat;
    And he sat him down in a lonely place,
         And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
    That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
        And the lark drop down at his feet.

     
    The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly,
        The snake slipt under a spray,
    The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
        And stared, with his foot on the prey;
    And the nightingale thought, ‘I have sung many songs,
        But never a one so gay,
    For he sings of what the world will be
        When the years have died away.’
     


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