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SONNET.

willow! over whom the perilous blast Is sweeping roughly; thou dost seem to me The patient image of humility, Waiting in meekness till the storm be pass'd, Assured an hour of peace will come at last; That there will be for thee a calm bright day, When the dark clouds are gathered away. How canst thou ever sorrow's emblem be? Rather I deem thy slight and fragile form, In mild endurance bending gracefully, Is like the wounded heart, which, 'mid the storm, Looks for the promis'd time which is to be, In pious confidence. Thou shouldest wave Thy branches o'er the lowly martyr's grave.